


the cabin

by natalie_nebula



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artist Steve Rogers, Bottom Steve Rogers, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Science Nerd Bucky Barnes, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28058067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalie_nebula/pseuds/natalie_nebula
Summary: It felt like he… It felt like they were always so close. Everything seemed like it was under control. He remembers hearing Wanda’s voice, seeing a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. He remembers yelling something back at her, telling her to stop, to not come any closer. He remembers a bright flash, then a boom, and ringing in his ears. He remembers a black blur, and hands on his back, around his waist, then—darkness…After the explosion in Lagos, Steve wakes up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, and all he knows is that Bucky's the one who brought him there. While Sam, Nat, and the other Avengers try to figure out what happened to their friend, Steve takes the time away to heal—both his relationship with Bucky, and with himself. My cozy, romantic, and introspective Civil War rewrite.My entry for NASBB 2020!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 223
Kudos: 424
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Time: 0500 Hours**

**Location: Somewhere in Northeastern Canada**

**Temperature: 22 degrees Fahrenheit**

**[Redacted] Days Since Steve Rogers’ Disappearance**

“ _We’ve reached the extraction point. Prepare for landing.”_

Nat’s voice was so quiet, like she wasn’t quite ready to break the silence on board the Quinjet. Frankly, neither was Sam. 

After they landed, they reverted back to that silence, disembarking with a mechanical urgency. Sam hesitated slightly, his hand hovering over his gun on the tac shelf. He knew Nat was watching him.

She turned to him—he could see the movement out of the corner of his eye. “It’s…best to be prepared for anything, Wilson. You know that.” 

Sam scoffed at her. “ _Anything_ isn’t what I’m worried about.” 

He swiftly grabbed the handgun and holstered it in the hidden compartment in his jacket. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, then a gentle squeeze. “We’re gonna find them.” 

Nat’s voice was warm and solid. He resisted the urge to repeat himself to her. He respected her too much. He just gave her a slight nod. “Alright, let’s move out. Stark can’t have been out here for too long.” 

As they made their way down the ramp and exited the jet, Sam spotted a flicker of light through the thick snowfall, blown sideways by the wind. Like a ship out on the ocean, rolling over the hills, there it was.

“ _Sam_ , there’s footprints, we have to move—”

____________

****  
  


____________

_“Bucky?…”_

It felt like he… It felt like they were always so _close_.

Everything seemed like it was under control. It was the best lead they’d had on Rumlow in months—a biolab in Lagos housing an experimental weapon. Sam and Nat had secured the payload. He’d gotten the jump on Rumlow, with Wanda trailing right behind him. _Poor Wanda…_

He had Rumlow on the ground, mask off, scars exposed. 

“I think I look pretty good, all things considered.”

Steve remembered asking him who his buyer was.

“You know, he knew you,” he answered. “Your pal, your buddy, your _Bucky_.” 

“What did you say—”

It wasn’t a question.

Rumlow smiled, the skin around his mouth cracked and red. 

“He remembered you. I was there.”

Steve could hear blood rushing in his ears. His mouth hung open but he couldn’t push any words out. 

Rumlow’s laugh was hoarse, painful. “He got all weepy about it, before they put his brain back in a blender.” 

Steve gripped Rumlow’s worn tactical suit and dragged him up closer to his face. Maybe a map to Bucky was burnt onto his retinas. 

“Where is he—”

“Y’know he’s been following you, right? ‘Freak’s probably watching us right now.” The blood in his ears got louder. Rumlow scoffed, “Too bad he’s still crazy. Maybe he would have tried to save you.” 

That’s when Steve glanced down at Rumlow’s fist, at the detonator clutched in his shaking hand. 

_“Steve—”_

He remembers hearing Wanda’s voice, seeing a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. He remembers yelling something back at her, telling her to stop, to not come any closer. He remembers a bright flash, then a boom, and ringing in his ears. He remembers a black blur, and hands on his back, around his waist, then—

_darkness…_

______________

_Now I would like to introduce the head of the foundation…_

Tony found out as soon as he stepped off the stage at MIT. The sound of massive applause was still disappearing behind him when Agent Hill approached, a somber look on her face. 

“Sir, there’s been an incident in Nigeria.” She cut right to the chase, as she always did.

Tony sighed and rolled one of his shoulders, “We lost Rumlow?” He kept on walking, eyes ahead of him, the image of the outdated teleprompter still visible whenever he blinked. 

“We lost Rogers, sir.” 

He stopped abruptly, ten feet from the elevator. 

Agent Hill immediately took a defensive stance and clarified, “He’s still _alive—_ as far as we know. But he’s currently MIA.” 

Tony pursed his lips, pivoting on one foot towards Hill. He opened his mouth to speak— _to say God knows what, in response—_ but Agent Hill graciously kept talking, her hands folded behind her back, her tone as level as it could be. 

“Rogers intercepted Rumlow in a crowded pedestrian area. He was interrogating him about the bioweapon when Rumlow detonated a hidden explosive strapped to his body. Wanda managed to control the energy force from the explosion but—”

“But _what?_ What exactly _happened_ to him?” Tony tried his best to keep his voice down, as though it would hide the full-body tremble that had migrated down to his fists.

Agent Hill sighed, her gaze briefly flicking down to her shoes. “Based on our current intelligence,” She took a step closer, her voice lowered, “we have reason to believe that whatever faction Rumlow was working for is…connected to the Winter Soldier.” 

Tony’s eyes widened. 

“You mean—”

“The security footage was blurry, but we got a positive face ID, and Wanda could see him clearly from her position. She confirmed it was him.”

 _Barnes._ Tony remembered getting a similar call, two years ago in his penthouse lab in Avengers Tower; Rogers, hospitalized and jacked up on super soldier-grade painkillers, claimed some mythical Hydra hitman turned out to be his best friend from times long passed, and that he’d saved his life. 

As much as The Captain had always gotten on his ass about his ideology and worldview, Tony could see the stars hiding behind Rogers’ eyes clear as day. Washington could fall to its knees before him—and it _did_ —and his first thought would always be Bucky Barnes.

Tony paused before squaring his shoulders and continuing to walk towards the elevator. “So, the hundred-year-old amnesiac finally comes out of the shadows…What for?” 

Hill gives him a light shrug. “We don’t have a clear motive. Our analysts have been speculating he’s a pawn for whatever terror cell Rumlow was operating, and that they took Rogers as a bargaining chip.”

“But what is he _doing_ with him?” Tony was trying his best not to be short with Hill. She had been one of SHIELD’s finest, and had probably done more for this country than he ever had, as far as he was concerned. 

But that didn’t change the fact that Steve Rogers was gone and they had no clue where he was—or how, or _why._

Agent Hill tentatively tapped the elevator button and kept her eyes trained on the changing floor numbers as she spoke. “To be honest, we have no idea what state of mind Barnes is in right now, or if anyone is controlling his mind, or if anyone is under _his_ control.” 

Tony stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. He looked down at his bespoke leather loafers as the elevator doors slid open. He hadn’t noticed until then that he was frantically tapping his left foot the whole time they were waiting, inadvertently creasing the leather.

They stepped inside together. Tony turned to address her, peering over the rim of his glasses. “Well, Agent, what are we gonna do about it?”

____________

_Steve saw bright flashes of light, and felt the sensation of cool water rushing past his palms. He heard voices: people singing, a deep, wet cough, the sound of wind against a windowpane, cars honking in the distance. Gunshots, followed by silence._

_Why do you cry...he was only...only a machine…_

_He saw a woman, holding his disembodied hand from a hospital bed, but the room around them was...blank. Suddenly, he was tiny. He looked up. Another hand loomed over him, hard and calloused, holding a key, loosely between the fingertips. “The end of the line, pal…”_

_Then there was a bus, full of young men with solemn faces, driving away from him. He watched helplessly as it disappeared over the horizon. No matter how fast he ran after it, it was always out of his grasp._

_The hand came back, and so did the hospital bed, and the blank room—this time it was dark, and cold, and the bed seemed to be falling away from him, with its icy metal and dangling leather straps. The hand was falling away from him too, faster and faster, but his arms weren’t long enough, he wasn’t strong enough to reach it. “Bucky!”_

_Just a nasty old machine...He wasn’t alive at all..._

_The bright lights above him turned into smoke and flames and deafening booms. A building was falling around him. Men in sharp suits stood with dark shadows cast over their faces. They raised their voices, but he couldn’t hear anything they were saying. It was all nonsense. A shock of cold against his skin—the grip of...of a hand. It was made of metal._

_He was not no machine! He was a person...just like...me...and he was my friend..._

____________

Steve woke up with a jolt, all at once.

He felt himself lying on his back, on some type of bed or a cot or _something_ that wasn’t quite the floor. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he gazed up at a ceiling made of old oak logs. The flat pillow barely holding his head up smelled like mildew, and a scratchy blanket was thrown over his legs and his—

His torso felt like it was _burning_ . He wasn’t wearing anything except the blanket, and he wanted to throw that rag off and look at himself so badly, but he didn’t quite have the strength to follow through with it. His chest may have been a mystery, but as he scanned over the rest of his body, he noticed his right arm was bruised, bandaged into a makeshift splint made of some splintered plywood. One thing he knew for sure was that he hadn’t felt like this in a long time. _Not since…_

His eyes were drawn around the room. The same logs that made up the ceiling continued down to the walls. There were two windows, at least that he could see: one in front of him, and one on his right. The glass was warped, like an old bottle of pop, so he couldn’t get a clear view of anything outside; just the vague outline of some pine trees, and gentle clumps of falling snow, gathering on the outside of the windowsill. On the inside, there were a few little knick knacks scattered around that could have been mistaken for garbage if they weren’t so carefully placed. An actual glass bottle, emerald green in color, was set just below the front window, acting as a makeshift vase. It held a few delicate crocuses that must have been picked fairly recently. His dog tags were hanging off the edge, precariously dangling down towards the floor. Taped up to the wall to the right of the window were some pictures: one of him from the brochure in the Smithsonian exhibition—some sort of wartime propaganda painting recreation, another of him and the Howlies that looked more archival, authentic even. Accompanying the pictures were a random array of bent, rusty nails sticking out of the wall, alongside some yellowed scraps of paper, covered in unintelligible cursive scribblings.

To his right stood some cement blocks and wooden planks fashioned into a bookcase. It was mostly empty, save for a substantial layer of dust on all sides, and a few busted paperbacks aligned on the bottom shelf. Sitting on its side was a newer looking black leather notebook, with no hint of dust in sight. On top of its cover, there was a yellow #2 pencil, its crude edges clearly sharpened by a hunting knife. 

The wind was quiet, but audible, inside the drafty cabin. To the left of the window just in front of him was a door—a closed door. He couldn’t tell if it was locked from where he was laying, but something told him it might be. 

He abruptly jerked his head up again when he heard a sound, something foreign, coming from another room: another door, creaking open on rusted hinges, then falling—no, _slamming_ closed, the wind getting louder, then softer along with it. It was followed by heavy footsteps on the old, groaning wood, moving closer. 

Suddenly the door swung open, and Steve finally saw him _._

First a boot, then a hand grabbing the doorframe, then a face, _his_ face: long strands of greasy brown hair hanging over it, five o-clock shadow covering his cheeks and his jaw, those clear blue eyes, clear like the sky over the Hudson on a summer afternoon. 

_“Bucky!”_

Steve’s body _forced itself_ to sit upright, to reach for Bucky and never let him go ever again. Bucky’s head jerked over to look at him, and he clumsily dropped whatever he was carrying, letting it roll onto the floor. As Steve watched Bucky rush over to his bedside, the pain finally hit him, overtaking the euphoria of seeing him again—of _finding_ him _._

_No...he found me..._

He let out a grunt that nearly turned into a _scream_ , barely trapped by the top of his throat, clenching his fists in the old stained sheets. His entire chest felt like it had gone up in flames. He felt his breath go shallow, and the blood rush out of his head. Black splotches appeared in front of his eyes—more and more each time he blinked—covering Bucky’s face. 

Suddenly, his head fell back.

____________

_“Sam! Come quickly! It’s Steve, he’s—"_

Sam leaned back, resting on the edge of the kitchen counter. He peered down at his feet, at the cold metal shield leaning up against the cabinets, lost without its owner. Nat was sitting on the couch, her legs crossed, hands folded over one knee. She kept her head down, even when Tony stormed into the room, followed by Agent Hill. 

“Alright team, Hill filled me in on Rogers. What do we have so far?” The vein in Sam’s forehead started to throb as soon as Tony walked through the door, his voice like an electrical surge shooting right behind Sam’s eye. “Are we running satellite tracking on his suit? Are we checking security cameras for a face ID? What about the rest of Rumlow’s hit squad, do we have any word on them?”

Sam hadn’t noticed Vision drift into the room, and he was surprised to hear him answer— _in that robotic voice of his_. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. is currently tapping into global surveillance systems and scanning facial recognition for both Rogers and Barnes, but we have yet to detect any positive matches.”

When Vision started spouting off statistics and satellite data to Tony, Sam quickly checked out of the conversation. He’d _been_ on that satellite data, checking security cameras and cellphones all over West Africa the entire flight home, and they had _nothing_ . If what he knew about Bucky was true—no, if what Steve had _told_ him about Bucky was true, then whatever asinine plan Tony was concocting to make himself look like the hero for finding him wasn’t gonna work this time around. 

The longer Sam stood there biting his lip, pretending to listen, the more he swore he could feel the nip of the shield's frigid metal on his leg, even through his tac pants. He briefly looked over his shoulder at Nat, who was still alone on the couch, staying quiet—though, based on the look in her eyes, the wheels in her head were clearly spinning. Then of course, Tony said something that caught Sam’s attention:

“What about Rumlow? Have we looked into his connection with Barnes?” 

Sam’s head whipped up in an instant, his brow pinched and his voice clipped. “What _connection_?”

For the first time since entering the room, Tony acknowledged him, turning on his heel to face him. He shrugged, effortlessly sliding a hand into his pocket as he spoke. “Well, Hill showed me the report.” Tony began to saunter over to him and Sam stood up straight, crossing his arms over his chest. Without even realizing, he instinctively nudged the shield behind his leg with his foot. “Barnes nabbed Rogers during the explosion, right? So the explosion was clearly a diversion to keep his cover.” 

Sam couldn’t help but scoff. “What motive would Barnes have to work with Rumlow? That guy tortured him for _years_.” 

Tony pursed his lips a little and stepped closer, “Well, _Wilson_ , maybe he didn’t have a motive. Maybe his motive was programmed into him by the same guys that have been _controlling his mind_ for _years_ , and who finally have unlimited access to make him do whatever they want.”

Sam hadn’t noticed Agent Hill enter the room either, and was surprised when she materialized a few feet behind Tony. “Steve _would_ make an ideal bargaining chip,” She added. Her voice was almost as monotone as Vision’s. “But again, that begs the question: what do they want? Especially now that Rumlow’s gone.” 

Sam could feel his heart starting to beat double-time. He glanced towards Natasha, who was _still_ sitting, nonchalantly picking at her fingernails. 

Tony turned to her too, raising his brows. “You’ve been awfully quiet for the past two minutes, Romanoff. Care to chime in?” 

Natasha sighed and turned to face the both of them, resting her arm on the back of the couch. She looked Sam right in the eyes as she spoke. 

“If Rumlow’s dead, then that begs the question; who’s in control?” 

Tony let out a curt laugh and waved a hand in her direction. 

“See? Thank you, Nat—”

“Now hold on a minute,” Sam cut him off _quick_. Squaring his shoulders, he loosened his vice-grip on the kitchen counter and took a firm step forward, practically within spitting distance of Tony. “There are two things we know about Barnes—about _The Winter Soldier_ , right now, definitively. Number One is that he was kidnapped and _tortured_ for fifty-odd years by Hydra.” Sam paused for a moment, trying his best to keep the quiver out of his voice. “Number _Two_ , is that the last time The Winter Soldier went AWOL, the _first_ thing he did was save Steve Rogers’ life, which leads me to believe that—”

“Woah woah woah, hold on a minute there Wilson.” Tony lifted his hands up in some shitty attempt at a truce, but it only made the vein in Sam’s head throb even harder. “That’s anecdotal evidence, _at best_. Rogers wasn’t exactly in his right mind after getting tossed a few hundred feet into a river.”

“Stark, I swear to God—” Sam’s vision was starting to tunnel, and now with no countertop for leverage, both of his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. There was _so_ _much_ he wanted to say in that moment, that he could have just spit out, right into Tony’s face: the way his back felt after sleeping in Steve’s hospital room for a week straight, while Tony sat around in his penthouse waiting for a phone call. What it was like standing in _this very kitchen_ with Steve, into the early hours of the morning, watching him take tiny sips of Asgardian booze and slowly but surely opening up to him—the way they told each other things they’d never said out loud before, to anyone. Hell, he might have even had the strength to tell him what it was like heading back to basecamp after his last EXO-7 mission, and how he had to watch them sift through the rubble of the accident, finding bits of exploded missile with the _Stark Industries_ logo painted on them. 

But instead of saying any of that, the sound of his own blood gushing behind his ears was quickly silenced by the gentle touch of Nat’s hand on his arm. Clearly the look on Sam’s face had said enough, because he soon realized Tony had stopped talking and taken a step back towards Hill. 

“ _Boys_...” Nat's voice was soft, but assertive, in a way only she could manage. “As I was _saying_ , Rumlow is dead. The Winter Soldier is alive and has been tracking us—tracking Steve specifically.” She turned to Sam as she continued, in a clear attempt to level with him. “If he wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have saved him from the explosion. So—”

“It’s unlikely he was working for Rumlow, because their goals were at odds,” Hill added, bringing a hand to her chin as the gears of her tactical mind went to work. 

Natasha nodded. “ _Exactly_. And the only other intelligence we have right now is the singular eyewitness account—however well-supported it is—from Steve, after the Helicarrier crash. We have no idea what’s been going on inside Barnes’ head for the past two years, or what he wants, except that he wants Steve alive, for some unknown purpose.”

Sam saw Tony rear up and open his mouth, clearly ready to speak out of turn again, when Agent Hill cleared her throat instead. 

“You’re right, Romanoff.” She acknowledged her with a curt nod before crossing her arms over her chest. “I think it would be _prudent_ of us to approach this situation with...some level of caution.” Sam could see a smirk begin to tug at Tony’s lips out of the corner of his eye, and he held back the urge to deck him. “After all, if the only fact we can be sure of is the frankly erratic nature of his mental state, then it’s important to remember, regardless of any anecdotal evidence, that the Winter Soldier can and _should be_ considered _highly dangerous_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohmygosh I don't even know how to start! I'm so excited to finally be posting this after so many months of working on this fic. I'm so pumped to finally share this with you guys, and I want to thank everyone who showed interest in my previous stucky fics for inspiring me to join this bang in the first place! Make sure to check back in tomorrow for the next chapter. I'll be posting twice a day every day this week. Hope you all like it so far, and I can't wait to see you again tomorrow!
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wakes up, over and over.

The second time Steve woke up, someone was touching him. 

His eyes fluttered open and he felt a sharp pain slice through his head. He squinted as he looked around the room. It was still daylight hours, but he couldn’t be sure _what_ day it was, or how long he’d been out for. He noticed a shadow looming over him: Bucky, kneeling on the floor at his bedside, pressing a wet bandage around his ribs. 

Steve took in a sharp breath at the stinging sensation of the alcohol against his still-healing wounds. _Yeah…_ He thought, _Definitely haven’t felt like this in a while._

At the sound of Steve’s quick inhale, Bucky immediately turned his head to look at Steve. He watched Bucky raise his metal hand up and cradle his forehead for a fleeting moment, before snatching it back down, moving to fiddle with what sounded like a metal first aid kit on the floor. 

“Bucky—” It was only the second time he’d spoken since…since the explosion. His voice was scratched and raw. His throat felt like it had been clawed at from the inside. He wanted to say more, to say _something,_ but all he could do was erupt into another coughing fit. He watched through watery eyes as Bucky took another rag out of his kit and dipped it in a shallow bowl of water. He rinsed the cloth twice, then folded it up and leaned over Steve to delicately drape the cold towel across his forehead. A slight chill ran down his neck and shoulders at the new sensation, before he relaxed into it, letting it calm his throbbing headache. 

He relaxed his eyelids a bit more, still observing Bucky as he fiddled around with his medical supplies. From where Steve was positioned, he could make out a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some bandages, and what looked like an old, crusty tube of antibiotic ointment. 

Bucky suddenly stood up, towering over Steve before making a full 180’ and taking three steps out the door. Steve could hear him fumbling around in the other room; the sound of cabinets opening and closing, dishes clanging together, the tap being turned on—the cabin had running water.

Soon enough Bucky returned, balancing a white ceramic mug in one hand and a plate of plain crackers in the other. He bent down on one knee at the head of the bed and created a makeshift bedside table by pulling over a small upside down wooden crate. The crate was covered with a thin layer of dust, which Bucky brushed off with his right hand before gently setting down the food. 

Then he turned to Steve, and they made eye contact with each other for the first time in seventy-odd years.

Bucky’s eyes were still the same blue they’d been yesterday, and presumably the day before that, and the day before that. There was something about them, all the _life_ buried in them. Steve couldn’t imagine the Winter Soldier looking at anyone with eyes like that, as though something about Hydra’s brainwashing must have taken the color away somehow. 

The center of his brow bone quivered slightly, his thick eyebrows pinching together as he looked at Steve, like it was taking up all of his physical energy to hold his gaze. Steve watched him as he bit his pink bottom lip and it flushed to red. 

Slowly, Bucky lifted both his arms, slotting them in the space at Steve’s sides, right beneath his armpits. Even though Bucky’s left hand was an unfamiliar cold metal, somehow his touch still felt warm. Gently, he pushed Steve’s body upwards. He wasn’t really even lifting him at all, just motioning for him to sit up. Steve obliged him, carefully readjusting his battered torso, as Bucky’s hands barely grazed his skin; over his lower back, up, and around his head to adjust the pillow. Steve _swore_ he remembered the feeling of some of those calluses. 

Once he was sat up, Bucky leaned over him to adjust the fallen blanket around his waist, giving Steve a good look at the damage to his own chest. The bruising and discoloration from his arms continued to his sternum and down his left pectoral and his left flank. The redness and scabbing intensified the further down he looked. _And so did the pain,_ he thought. _Must have been a burn caused by the explosion._

As Steve’s eyes drifted around his own mangled body, he noticed the hem of Bucky’s grubby sweatshirt had been pulled up slightly, just enough to see identical burn markings right above Bucky’s left hip bone, along with the tail-end of some stitches. 

The words came out before he could even think of what to say.

“Does that _hurt_ , Buck?” He gestured towards Bucky’s injuries with his chin. 

No response. Just the sound of the wind whipping around outside, rattling the window panes. Bucky turned to look at him briefly, silently, before turning away again and smoothly lifting up off the bed. Steve hadn’t noticed that Bucky’s knees were pressed up against his thigh until the touch was suddenly gone. He went back to fiddling with the food and the medical supplies. 

He picked up the mug of water with his right hand, cradling the bottom of it with his left. Upon closer inspection, Steve could now see that it was tin, covered in a coat of matte white paint that was heavily chipped, especially near the rim, which had a strip of dark blue running around it. Steve also noticed how Bucky’s hands shook as he held it.

Slowly, he brought it up to Steve’s lips.

“Drink…drink this…” 

It was the first time Bucky had spoken to him since— _since D.C._

Steve remembered the feeling of coming-to on the rocky shore of the Potomac, of coughing up icy water, and the feeling of a hand resting on the shoulder of his tac suit. 

Bucky was still looking at him expectantly, and Steve couldn’t help but smile as he opened his lips and Bucky tipped the mug just slightly, letting the fresh, cool water run down his throat. Steve saw the corners of Bucky’s mouth move too, like he was trying to smile back. 

Then, Of course, Steve had to go and do something reckless.

After a few sips from the mug, Bucky pulled back, turning slightly away from Steve to place it back down on the overturned crate. But Steve couldn’t help himself. Just as the bottom of the cup touched the wood, he reached out and grabbed Bucky’s forearm. 

The metal was cool beneath his palm, even cooler than the towel draped across his forehead. Bucky jerked his head back to look at Steve, then down at his arm. At the two of them. Steve could hear himself breathing. Once again, Bucky was silent.

“Ca—can you…feel that?” 

Bucky’s blue eyes flicked up at him again. They were darker now, like the sky right before a storm. They looked back down at their arms together, at Steve’s thumb gently rubbing back and forth against Bucky’s mechanical wrist.

“…Yeah.” He nodded twice, slowly, then pulled his lower lip back between his front teeth. 

Steve could see the heavy rise and fall of his own chest out of the corner of his eye, but he kept on rubbing little circles for as long as Bucky would let him. _I’m here, Buck._

Inevitably, that wouldn’t be long enough. Steve’s concept of time was surely warped, but in what felt like seconds, Bucky abruptly pulled away from him and stood up. He trailed his gaze up and down Steve’s body once more before turning on his heel and leaving the room. Steve reached his left hand out after him, but he couldn’t stand, couldn’t go after him. His mouth fell open, but for some reason he couldn’t get any words to come out. All he could do was sit and watch as Bucky walked away again, closing the door behind him.

____________

_“‘What is it, dear?’_

_‘You know what it is, George. It’s Gloria and that terrible machine.’_

_‘What terrible machine—’”_

This time, Steve awoke to a _voice—_ steady and monotone, but a little raspy. He groaned as his eyes fluttered open, this time revealing a much darker room, barely lit by warm lamplight. The world outside was a deep blue, almost black, and the tree line had practically disappeared into the night sky. The position of one of the lamps—set on top of the makeshift bookshelf—cast a dark shadow across his body, now covered by a second blanket. He turned to his left and smiled. 

The voice, the shadow: it was Bucky, awkwardly hunched over on top of the overturned wooden crate. He was holding up a very worn paperback copy of a book called _I, Robot_ by Isaac Asimov—that’s as much as the cracked spine and torn cover could tell him. 

“ _Bucky?_ ” Steve’s voice was still hoarse and a little quiet, but certainly enough to get Bucky’s attention. He snapped out of his reading reverie, putting the book face down on the floor before turning his attention back to Steve. 

Steve watched him carefully; the way his eyes flicked back and forth between different spots along the wall and different parts of Steve’s body, the way his breathing picked up as he carefully slid his hands across Steve’s stomach—now covered by an unzipped sleeping bag—slowly venturing upwards until he reached Steve’s own hands, resting on top of his sternum. 

Steve watched, his heart rate steadily rising, as Bucky’s hands washed over his like a cocoon, holding them close and safe. _Together_ . Steve looked up through his lashes to find Bucky staring right back at him intently. They sat there in silence, breathing the same air as each other, feeling skin against skin, being alone in the dark with each other. _Just like old times,_ Steve thought. A hopeful smile spread across his face.

“Bucky?” 

Bucky didn’t respond, just kept staring straight at him.

“You…you remember me, right?” 

Again, no response.

Then—

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

He nodded once, firmly. Sure of himself. 

Steve laughed, smiling with his teeth. 

The corners of Bucky’s lips turned upwards, just barely. He looked pained but…resilient. Resilient and ready. 

Steve dared to attempt more contact. Carefully, he extracted his hands out from under Bucky’s and put his on top, so Bucky’s palms were pressed up against his chest. Once again, the touch of the metal felt oddly warm, even with just the edge of the blanket protecting him from the elements. Slowly, he began rubbing tiny circles over Bucky’s calloused knuckles, just like he’d done earlier. At first he felt Bucky resisting, instinctively pulling away. But Steve just held eye contact for as long as he could—a solid wall of kindness and openness that he _hoped to God_ would get through to him.

After a few minutes of silence and gentle nudging, Bucky finally started to lean into Steve’s touch. His timid smile came back too, and it was much more relaxed now, like a ghost of a memory dancing behind Steve’s eyes. 

He wasn’t stupid. He knew that man was gone now, and he could never come back—not after what he’d been through. But Steve _knew_ this man wasn’t the Winter Soldier either. He wondered what type of person Bucky had become after two years on the run. Two years of searching for Steve, of following his every move without leaving a trace. _Did he always plan on taking me here?_

Steve was snapped out of his train of thought by the feeling of something bumping up against his chest. He looked down to find Bucky—still kneeling at his bedside—resting his head over Steve’s pecs, the part in his greasy brown hair touching just below their hands, still tangled up together. 

Steve let out a warm sigh, and watched as his fingers traveled up through Bucky’s unwashed tresses, making a home at the base of his neck, rubbing up and down until he heard Bucky’s familiar breaths start to even out. 

He looked up and peered out the window at the soft light of the crescent moon, hanging in the corner of a deep navy sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the positive response to the first chapter! Sorry this one's a little shorter than the last one, but you get another chapter tonight so I figured I could get away with it lol. Anyways, let me know how you're liking this fic by leaving a comment! They really make my day and I try to get back to all of them as soon as possible <3 Thanks again for reading and see you soon!
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve pushes Bucky, and Bucky pushes back.

Steve woke up expecting to find Bucky’s head in his lap, but he was alone. 

The sun was peeking through the window curtains at a new angle _._ The snow flurries had stopped, and the light reflecting from the ground was blinding. He could finally get a clear look at the tree line of conifers stretching on and on forever, until their trunks were so close together they created a wall of darkness along the horizon. 

He could hear birds chirping, and a light breeze whipping against the walls of the cabin, and— _music_ , coming from another room. It sounded tinny and a little staticky. _Must be playing on something old,_ Steve thought as he sat up. He winced as he felt a now-familiar pinch on his left side. He looked down at his bare chest and tried to take stock of things: his bruises were starting to turn yellow, and the redness and swelling around his bandages was going down. He took in a sharp breath when he leaned on his right arm a little too hard. Steve gently placed it in his lap to inspect it, and it looked pretty much the same as the rest of him. He didn’t remember enough about the explosion to know how he’d retained a fracture, but it sure _felt_ like one. 

Deciding it was worth the risk, he braced himself, then carefully swung his legs out from under the blanket, landing his feet on the floor. 

_Now that I think about it, this is the first time I’ve seen my feet since Bucky brought me here…_

Bucky had put him in a thick pair of plain grey wool socks, and a loose pair of sweatpants—a blush crept up Steve’s cheeks when he _also_ realized he was no longer wearing underwear. 

_Bucky must have had to undress me to treat my wounds…_ He didn’t know what was so embarrassing about the idea. They’d seen each other naked before—hard to avoid when you’ve known someone damn near your whole life. But something about it itched at him more this time, something that he couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the newness of it all, knowing each other for the first time in this century. After all, Captain America wasn’t quite the same as he was before he’d gone in the ice. He took a moment to let the thought roll around in his head, before simply nodding and moving on— _before his face got too hot…_ Steve braced himself again, and being mindful of his right arm, pushed himself up onto his feet. 

“ _Fuck—_ ” he hissed as a sharp pain shot through his abdomen. He propped himself up against the wall with his left arm, leaning over the bookcase. From where he was standing, he got a better look at all the dust that had collected on it. He couldn’t help but cough a little at the sight of all the grime. _Buck never was fond of cleaning,_ he thought.

After standing still for a while, catching his breath, he finally built up the strength to stand back up and slowly leave the bedroom. When he reached the door, he was curious to see if it would be locked from the outside. It wasn’t. It gently swung open, the hinges creaking a little bit, and Steve stepped out into the rest of the cabin. 

“Bucky?”

It was small, and dark—quiet and still, except for the sound of music coming from an old battery-powered radio resting on the kitchen counter. On his right, there wasn’t much else but a door, presumably leading outside, along with a window looking out over a small clearing. Pressed up against it was a wooden table with two mismatched chairs. Another glass soda bottle holding delicate flowers was placed in its center; this one had a large crack running down the side, but it still held water.

Without an answer to his call, Steve took another step forward. He scanned his eyes to the left, and found the kitchen in the center of the room, set back slightly into the wall. He walked over to the radio, mostly hidden from view behind a rusted white refrigerator—Steve swore it looked closer to the icebox they had at their place in Brooklyn than it did any of the modern ones he’d seen. Whatever music was playing was barely intelligible with all the static. Steve thought it sounded instrumental—something with strings and a piano—but he couldn’t quite place it. He turned the volume dial down and kept exploring. 

Most of the sunlight in the room came from a beautifully large window set above the kitchen sink. It overlooked a meadow on the side of the clearing, leading to a set of rolling hills, ending in an enormous mountain off in the distance, with one large, snow-capped peak. The snow covered most signs of life on the ground, but Steve spotted a few patches of grass poking out through the thinnest white layers. The deep metal sink was mostly clean, except for a bowl and a spoon that had been rinsed out—he could still see what looked like cereal residue on the walls of the ceramic bowl. The rest of the counters were fairly clear, seemingly the cleanest surfaces in the house, apart from some dust and cobwebs gathering along the edges.

Steve spun around, resting his left hand on the counter’s edge, and found himself facing a wall of mostly-empty bookshelves that stretched floor to ceiling. There were some random paperbacks and hardcovers scattered around, but other than that, everything had been cleared out. He tugged his lower lip between his teeth, wondering who had been here before Bucky came—wondering how long it had been like this. 

He walked back across the room slowly, taking care to be gentle with himself. On the other side of the kitchen, the cabin expanded farther back, leading to two doorways set on perpendicular walls. On the third wall, there was a large brick fireplace that stretched up even higher than the bookcases. Without the fire lit, the sunlight from the kitchen barely illuminated that corner of the room. Besides the fireplace and the mysterious doorways, there were bits of laundry strewn about the floor, a few pairs of white tube socks hanging off the mantle. Sitting across from the hearth was a lone armchair, stained and tattered. It looked like a brown or a dark green now, but Steve wasn’t sure that was the original color. In front of the chair was a circular wooden stool, perhaps a footrest, and leaning against its side was—

A shotgun, twelve gauge. Steve walked up to it to get a closer look, but somehow, he was afraid to pick it up, to hold it in his own two hands. _Bucky trusts me enough to—_

Standing over the chair, he saw something else interesting: _I, Robot,_ once again lying face down on the seat. Hanging off the armrest was a blue knitted blanket, half of it pooled on the floor in a heap, alongside another flat white pillow with no case. 

Steve glanced down at the shotgun again and gulped. He needed to move on. 

The first mystery door he checked behind turned out to be a lucky one: the bathroom, or more accurately the wet room. It was fairly cramped, and _incredibly_ humid. Water droplets stuck to the wood panelling, especially around the open shower, with its rusted temperature knobs. The mirror above the sink was still fogged up around the edges. _So this place has water_ and _electricity…_ Steve spent another moment taking stock of the space. He considered taking a hot shower, but the pain in his side was only getting worse the longer he stayed standing. He figured if his stink hadn’t already repulsed Bucky, it wasn’t gonna get much worse. 

He ended up taking a quick piss and rinsing his hands and face before heading back towards the bedroom. He was drying his hands off with what seemed to be the only towel when he heard the sound of a door opening and closing. 

His head shot up and he locked eyes with himself in the mirror. He didn’t move, _couldn’t_ move. He just stood still and listened to Bucky’s footsteps trailing across the room; first the kitchen, then closer, towards the fireplace, then farther back towards the bedroom. _The bedroom._ Steve turned towards the closed wet room door just as he heard the sound of Bucky’s voice calling for him.

“Steve?” 

His voice was softer than it had been. It almost sounded…broken.

Bucky had stopped moving. Steve took in a breath and opened the door. 

He was standing in the middle of the room, facing Steve. He still had on his hat and coat, and he’d tracked wet snow clumps across the floor with his huge rubber boots. 

Steve just stared at him from the doorway. 

“I’m…I’m still here, Buck,” He said, just quiet enough to be heard. 

Bucky stared back at him. Steve could see from across the room that his hands were trembling at his sides. His mouth was hanging open, but he didn’t say anything. They just looked at each other.

Then, he nodded, and turned back towards the kitchen. 

“I’m making fish for dinner so, uh, you should rest and then we’ll eat.”

Steve’s heart stopped beating for a split second. _That’s the longest sentence I’ve heard from him since…_

_…since 1945._

For a moment he didn’t move, didn’t respond, didn’t do anything. He just watched Bucky move methodically throughout the kitchen, lifting up two silvery fish hanging on a single hook and dumping them onto the counter. He reached into his pocket and took out a large hunting knife. 

Steve took in a breath, composing himself as best he could.

“Alright then Buck, uh…wake me up when dinner’s ready, alright?” 

Bucky didn’t respond with words. He just nodded and went back to slicing the fish open, their guts spilling out onto his hands. 

Steve never ended up falling back asleep. He sat up in bed and watched the sun sink below the tree line, kept track of the colors of the sky dripping into one another until it grew dark and the moon started to rise up into that cold blue expanse. He considered reaching for the black notebook sitting on the edge of the shelf, but didn’t. 

Eventually, Bucky knocked on the door—a call to dinner, and Steve obliged. Standing up was easier this time. The same could not be said about sitting down at the table. 

Steve sat down in the chair next to the door. Bucky had his back to him, finishing up in the kitchen. He hadn’t said anything when Steve walked in the room. Steve set his hands on the tabletop, wiggling his fingers. He glanced over to the chair by the fireplace; the gun was still there, leaning up against it at the same angle as before. 

“That book you were reading aloud to me last night, _I, Robot_ …where did you find it?” Steve asked. He waited anxiously for Bucky’s response. 

“Here,” He replied without turning around, “At the cabin.” 

He paused for a moment, and again, Steve waited. The silence between them was deafening. The faucet was running, and the fire was crackling, and Steve did his best to focus on those sounds instead of the quick thumps of his own heartbeat. 

Suddenly, the water cut off. Then quietly, Bucky stuttered, “Why d’you ask?…Did—did you like it?”

Steve felt the corners of his lips curl up, “Yeah, Buck, I like it when you read to me.” 

Another pause. Then:

“Yeah, I—I _remember_ that…about you.”

All of a sudden, Steve could feel his own tongue sitting in his mouth, tugging at the back of his throat. _What else do you remember?_

“How did we get here, Buck? Cuz we’re not in Nigeria anymore.”

“We’re in Canada.” Bucky cut him off swiftly and firmly, without turning around. His hands were still occupied, cleaning off a knife with an old rag. 

“Did you—” A thought briefly crossed Steve’s mind. He pictured Bucky trekking through the snow, the bottoms of his feet bleeding into his boots. “Is this where you came after D.C.?”

This time, Bucky didn’t answer. He set the knife down on the edge of the sink and leaned over the counter. The silence in the room was so thick Steve could taste it. He could feel it in his lungs, taking up space where there should’ve been air. 

“What happened to the people who used to live in this house?”

Again, silence. Bucky glanced over his left shoulder. His eyes were sharp, looking off into some dark corner of the room. _Somewhere he thought Steve wouldn’t follow._

“I didn’t _hurt_ them,” He said. His words were sure, but his voice wavered as he said it. “I don’t—I don’t _do_ that anymore.” 

The wind started to pick up outside and began to rattle the window panes. Steve watched as the glass beside him shook inside its frame.

“How did you get us across the Atlantic?” 

Bucky tossed the dirty rag on the floor. His eyes followed it. “ _Rumlow_ ,” He answered tersely. Steve could hear his throat tighten from across the room. “He had connections. I used them.”

Images flashed into Steve’s mind; Bucky being forced to hold a gun to another man’s head to get his way, stowing Steve’s unconscious body in the back of a transport plane or an unmarked truck, growing eyes in the back of his head— _or regrowing them_. All to get them _here_.

When he looked up, Bucky finally locked eyes with him. 

“We’re safe here, Steve. I promise.” 

Steve watched the change in Bucky’s face; that tightness around his mouth, the way his skin pinched between his brows. _He’s still getting used to saying my name again._

______________

Dinner was quiet. Bucky had brought over a plate of fish and vegetables and just said, “Eat” as he shoved it over to Steve’s side of the table. Steve humored him and cleaned his plate. He was hungry after a few days without a solid meal, but there was a tightness in his gut that just wouldn’t go away, not even with a hearty plate of food sitting in front of him. 

Bucky ate his fill too, but he always stayed a second behind Steve. His eyes would briefly flick up to check on him— _just making sure you’re keeping your promise to eat all your veggies, kid—_ then, when Steve made eye contact, he’d look back down at his plate and continue to silently shovel food into his mouth. This went on until both of them were finished. Then they sat there, their hands resting inches apart. The air in between them was palpably thick with static. Steve glanced up at Bucky and bit his lip. 

“I’m gonna clean up and head to bed.” He told him matter-of-factly. He abruptly stood, pushing his chair back. When he reached to pick up his empty plate, he found Bucky’s right hand clamped around his wrist. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” His voice was sharper than before. Steve looked down at where they touched—where their bodies connected, then back up to Bucky’s face. Bucky kept his eyes trained on the table. “I’ll—let me do it. Just go lie down.” 

Bucky took his hand away. Another harsh gust of wind rattled the window beside them, and Steve could feel the cold seeping in. 

Bucky turned away first, shoulders hunched over the sink as he ran the faucet as hard and as loud as he could. Steve stood there for a moment and watched him, not sure what to do with his hands anymore. He eventually shoved them into his slouching pants pockets and headed towards the bedroom. He hesitated, his fingertips dragging over the doorknob. The air was different now, the warm, vibrant electricity had dissipated. 

______________

When he entered the room, he found the lights had somehow been turned on for him, casting a warm glow. Shadows from the trees outside, swaying in the cruel wind, danced across the walls like ghosts. Steve’s body moved on autopilot, the cold wooden floors creaking below his feet as he folded back the tattered bed covers, readjusting the flat pillow. When he finally sat down on the edge of the bed, he turned to peer out the frosted window and caught a glimpse of himself in its reflection. He looked... _old_. And tired. A single deep wrinkle sliced through the center of his forehead, and for the first time in _years_ , he found dark black bags hanging under his eyes. He brought his hands up to his face and rubbed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. A low groan escaped his lips. His body felt like it was seconds from falling apart. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there for, his throbbing head cradled in shaking hands, but it was long enough that he missed the sound of the kitchen faucet being turned off, and footsteps approaching the door. When he finally looked up, Bucky was standing beside him, arms crossed over his chest. 

“You should be sleeping,” He said. His voice was quiet but firm. 

Steve met his eyes and found cracks hidden in the deep blue there. Bucky had more wrinkles than him—even a few scars.

 _Where were you all this time?_ He thought, watching the crease between Bucky’s brows twitch. _Why did you follow me for so long without saying anything?_

“Hey, Buck?” Steve’s gaze reflexively flicked down to his own hands resting in his lap. He had to fight to keep his eyes steady on Bucky. “Have you been sleeping in that little armchair out front?” 

Bucky gave him a curt nod in response, moving his hands to rest on Steve’s shoulders. Steve flinched at the touch, the warmth suddenly flooding back over his skin. He felt a gentle push and let himself fall back against the sheets willingly. Then he watched, with wide eyes, as Bucky pulled the blanket up over his chest, reaching around to tuck his limp body neatly inside it. A metallic hand reached up and brushed a stray hair out of his face, then went behind his head and readjusted the sunken pillow just slightly to better cradle Steve’s neck. 

Steve thought about all of these tender touches, and the bandages wrapped around his middle. He remembered the sound of Bucky’s soft voice reading to him while he slept. He pictured the old chair in the living room, with the single blanket draped on it and the shotgun leaning up against its side. He tried his best to keep his breaths even.

Then, as Bucky drew his hand away, Steve moved. 

He quickly reached up and grabbed on to Bucky’s cold left wrist, taking stock of the feeling of metal slipping against his skin. He met Bucky’s eyes and they were lighter now, suddenly sharp and alive with emotion.

“Do you... “ Steve’s words gushed from his lips like a stream, “Do you wanna sleep here tonight?” 

He watched in real-time as Bucky pupils dilated and the blue disappeared. The man was frozen in place. Steve glanced down at Bucky’s wrist and noticed his own hand was shaking. 

“I—” Bucky swallowed his words back down, his Adam's apple bobbing as his throat closed up behind them. 

The air between them seemed to shrink, the way it does during a lightning storm, and just like the crackling roll of thunder, it eventually had to erupt.

_Pop!_

The sudden noise shook Bucky from the edge of the bed and in the blink of an eye, he was out the door.

Steve stayed frozen for a moment, sat-up in bed, staring blankly at the now empty space where Bucky had just been. The door swung back and hit the wall as a sharp gust of wind pushed scattered chunks of snow onto the doormat.

“ _Bucky!_ ” Steve jolted out of bed, whatever force that had compelled Bucky to run now pushing him too. 

Steve fumbled over his own feet as he raced after Bucky. He stopped abruptly in the open doorway, the light from the cabin flooding the white hills up to the tree line, before the snow swallowed it in darkness. There, Bucky stood; no shoes, no coat, up to his calves in frozen slush, his skin starting to turn red from the cold. His hair whipped around his neck violently in the icy winds, his strong shoulders illuminated by the cabin’s light as he stared off into the darkness, facing it head on without so much as the thin shirt on his back. He looked so small, lit up against the vast, black wilderness. 

“Bucky, come inside!” Steve’s voice felt hoarse, his desperate words barely escaping his throat. “Bucky, _please!_ ” 

Finally, the man turned around, his face tight; guarded. 

“Go! It’s not safe _._ ” 

He was heaving, his chest rising and falling like roiling waves. His face flushed red, his eyes watering against the sharp stinging wind. He clenched his fists at his side; one dancing with metallic flecks of purple and orange, reflected off of the blinding snow and the light of the moon. 

Steve was frozen in place, trapped in the liminal space of that doorway, between the safe, quiet world of the cabin and—

“ _Steve_.” Bucky’s voice was a force pushing against him, just like the harsh winter air stinging his bare skin. 

He stayed where he was, unable to move, and watched as Bucky slowly— _hesitantly_ —turned around and trudged back towards the house. He kept glancing over his shoulder as he walked, always on his guard, waiting for something to emerge from the darkness. _Something that didn’t exist._

When he reached the snow-dusted entryway, he shoved past Steve, brushing a sharp shoulder blade against his chest and nearly snipping off the end of Steve’s nose as he abruptly shut the door behind him. 

“Bucky—”

“ _Go to sleep._ ” The man who met Steve’s eyes was distant, foreign, someone whose mind was barely anchored to already-slippery moorings. 

In one swift movement, and without another word, he pressed an icy metal hand to the center of Steve’s chest, pushed him backwards into the lonely single bedroom, and closed him up inside, alone. The door slamming in his face sounded like a gunshot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter: @budgetzendaya <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam searches for a friend.

_Mission Report: December 16th, 1991_

**Time: 2100 Hours**

**Location: Avengers Facility, [Undisclosed Location] New York**

**9 Days Since Steve Rogers’ Disappearance**

“Still working on your plan to kill Stark without getting caught?”

Sam laughed, “I don’t see how that’s ever gonna pan out if you keep talking about it in front of all these supercomputers.” 

After his… _confrontation_ with Tony, Sam had retreated back to his own room to do some more research on the Winter Soldier. He’d been locked away for days, digging through stacks of files he’d ordered directly from SHIELD headquarters, the NYU and Columbia history departments, The Library of Congress—anyone who knew anything about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. He was just beginning his deep dive into SHIELD’s declassified intelligence files when he heard a familiar triple knock on his door. 

He smiled and turned to see Natasha standing there, leaning up against the doorframe with her hair pulled back. Neither of them had worn their tac suits in days. She'd opted for sweatpants and some oversized Stark charity event t-shirt that she’d likely snatched from the laundry room and claimed as her own. 

“You find anything yet?” Her voice was warm and familiar.

Sam turned back to his laptop and started shuffling around the papers strewn out over his bed. “Not much yet…uh, I’m just getting started.” 

He stretched an arm out behind his head and yawned. One of the things nobody’d ever told him about being an Avenger was how exhausted you’d get without even noticing. Though to be fair, he hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in over a week. Every moment Steve was away from him—from _them_ , from the team—was one more moment that Sam had to worry about, and it had him absolutely restless. It was at the point where he’d closed his eyes and see all the documents; thousands of words written on the backs of his eyelids, chronicling every moment Steve and Bucky had spent together since the day they were born. Or at least, that version of their lives from the history books. He didn’t have to know Steve as well as he did to know that wasn’t even half the truth. 

Sam hadn’t noticed that Nat had drifted across the room and was now perched next to him on the edge of the bed. She carefully picked up one of the physical files resting on top of his comforter, gently bending back one edge with her finger.

He went back to typing, searching for something— _anything_ that could give them a clue about Steve and Bucky’s whereabouts.

After a moment of contemplation, Nat gingerly set the paper down. “You think Barnes is working for Rumlow?”

“Is that even a question?” Sam scoffed at her, not even bothering to turn away from his computer. Nat sighed, picking up another file. He could hear the smirk on her face without having to see it. 

“You think he and Rogers are _cuddled up_ together in some hovel—”

“Man, shut up!” He laughed, grabbing a manila folder and lightly thwacked her on the head with it. She held her hands up in a truce.

“Sorry, sorry, just—” She chuckled to herself, “Just hoping for the best, I suppose.” 

Sam nodded, “Sometimes that’s all we can do.” 

“Mhm…” She nodded back, mindlessly swinging her right leg along the side of the bed, her left leg tucked up underneath her. 

There was a beat of silence, then:

“Did he tell you?”

Sam didn’t look up, just kept his eyes on the screen.

“‘Cuz he didn’t tell me. I found out after we got back.”

Sam’s head shot up. “From who?”

“Sharon _Carter_ , aka Agent 13.”

Sam looked back at her for a good long second, watched the way her lip quivered slightly as she stared back at him, watched the two lines folded between her brows. He noticed she was wearing her arrow necklace, the silver metal glinting against her pale neck. 

He sat up a little straighter, turning his chest to face her fully. “How long did you know about—”

“About Sharon? She told me, right before she got reassigned to Berlin.” 

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Did you—”

“Tell Steve? No. That’s not really my business, is it, Wilson.”

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he mindlessly shuffled some papers, “I…suppose it’s not.” 

Another beat of silence.

Then she asked him, “When did he tell you?”

____________

_She’s gone in her sleep._

The first thing Sam noticed about the message was that it was from an unknown number, or at least a number Steve hadn’t bothered to save. Probably someone from the nursing home. _Maybe he put himself down as an emergency contact,_ he thought. 

The second thing Sam noticed was how hard Steve was trying to keep his hand still as he held the phone out in front of him. 

It was already dark out. As op-commander, Steve had mandated an early bedtime, but then he’d gone ahead and skipped dinner, so Sam figured that was as good of a reason as any to say “fuck you” to lights out at eight. 

When he gently knocked on Steve’s door, plate of Chinese takeout in hand, he wasn’t expecting it to just fall open, or to see Steve sitting on the edge of his bed, one leg folded under the other, surrounded by old photographs and documents. He was turned away from Sam, holding one of the photos delicately between his fingertips. 

Sam took it upon himself to speak first. _‘Cuz Steve’s emotionally unavailable-ass certainly won’t,_ he thought. 

“What’s goin’ on, man?” He tentatively sat on the other corner of the bed, carefully setting the plate down beside him. “It’s not like you to skip dinner.” 

Steve sighed, less defeated and more... _resigned._ Then he showed Sam the message.

“She’s gone, Sam.” He let his head fall towards his lap, staring down at the phone hanging loosely in his hands. Then his voice got quiet. 

“ _It’s all gone_.” 

Sam’s head shot up at this. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch Steve’s arm. It was still weird sometimes, seeing him like this, in these private moments, knowing all that strength hidden beneath a plain looking sweater. Sam softened his voice, too. 

“You know that’s not true, Steve.” He decided to do it, to reach out, run his hand along the side of Steve’s arm. Sam’s eyes flicked down at the picture resting on the bed below Steve’s elbow. It looked older than the others, like something from the archives. _From before the war._

“We’re gonna find him,” Sam stated. A proclamation. 

There was a beat of contemplative silence, Sam gently running a finger down the sleeve of Steve’s sweater, and Steve, just barely, _imperceptibly_ leaning into it. 

Then he scoffed at Sam quietly, still smiling. “I think it might be past your bedtime.”

Sam smiled back, “Hey, pretty sure it’s past yours too, old man. You ready for the mission tomorrow?” 

Steve reached his arms behind his head and let out a groan as he stretched. “Yup, bright and early. Y’know what time the sun rises in Lagos this time of year? 6:30 AM, sharp.”

“And y’know what time that is for us? Too damn early, that’s what time.” 

Steve laughed and it was bright and clean, just like the man Sam knew was hiding inside, just beneath the surface. _The man who wanted to be happy._

____________

“He had all these—these _pictures_ with him. From before the war.” 

Sam set his laptop to the side, reaching awkwardly behind him and picking up another manila folder, this one as-yet unopened. Nat leaned closer to him to get a better look as he flipped through the contents, resting a warm, neatly manicured hand on his left shoulder and giving him a light squeeze. Sam smiled down at the papers, leaning into the touch.

He held the photos delicately by the edges, just as Steve had done before. The first one was a posed photo of the Howling Commandos, taken (according to the scribbles on the back) at a British army base, 1944. They were all grinning from ear to ear; Steve’s own band of merry men, with Bucky by his side. Seeing the two of them in their uniforms together, smiling even in the midst of war, of _hell_ , it brought Sam back to the desert—to the feeling of brushing stray grains of sand off Riley’s shoulders.

He glanced over at Nat, but she didn’t say anything, just kept her eyes focused on the photographs. He moved on to the next one.

Beneath the Howling Commandos was another wartime photo: Steve and Peggy, alongside Col. Philips and Howard Stark. They looked like they were in one of those secret bunkers they’d built below the streets of London. Even though it was in black and white, Sam swore he could see the red of her lipstick peaking through. Steve stood so close to her that their hands were almost touching. 

“She’s beautiful…” Sam turned again out the sound of Nat’s voice. She smiled softly and reached out to touch the photo. “Tony really takes after Howard, doesn’t he…” 

Sam smiled too. “Yeah, he does.” 

They spent another moment with the photo before moving on. 

The picture at the bottom of the pile was…it was _different_. It was older, much less polished looking. The script on the back corner said _Brooklyn, 1939,_ in warm, familiar lettering. It was Steve and Bucky, before the war. They were sitting on a fire escape, overlooking an alleyway between two tenements. In the far corner, off in the distance, you could see just a glimpse of the Hudson. They looked so _young_. Bucky had an arm around Steve’s shoulders, and Steve…he was so small, Bucky’s body almost engulfed him in the frame. They were both smiling—wider than Sam had ever seen from Steve since he’d known him. It wasn’t just that he weighed 100 pounds, and had floppy bangs and not a wrinkle or a frown-line in sight; the Steve he was looking at was another person—a man lost in time. 

“He’s not that guy anymore, Sam. Neither of them are, and they never will be.” He felt Nat’s warm hand on his shoulder again. She gave him another gentle squeeze. “I know how much you care about him, and I know he’s probably told you all these stories about Bucky, about the man he used to be but…”

“But _what_.” Sam turned to look at her over his shoulder, staring her dead in the eyes. 

She hesitated. “Tony...he—he has a _right_ to be concerned—”

“He _pulled him_ out of the river! How many _stories_ do you have to hear before either of you fucking get it?” Sam stood abruptly, the photos falling from his lap onto the floor. “Bucky is Steve’s _person._ What about that don’t you understand?” Suddenly he was _fuming._ Barely containing the anger broiling inside him at Nat’s words, he carefully stepped over the pictures, walking to his desk and leaning his cracked knuckles along the sharp edge of the glass tabletop.

It was quiet for a moment. The sound of the wall clock ticking steadily grew louder. He heard Natasha sigh, then a creak from the bed frame as she stood up. 

“Tony is Steve’s friend too, y’know.” 

He didn’t turn around. 

He heard papers shuffling behind him as Nat gathered the photos up from the floor. He kept his eyes on his desk—on the photo of him and Riley framed in the corner. Riley’s big brown eyes watched him as he listened to her footsteps, making her way towards the door. 

“Goodnight, Sam,” She said flatly. The door closed. She was gone.

When he finally turned around, one of the files on his bed was missing. In its place sat a silver necklace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another short one, but this was my absolute favorite chapter to write out of this entire fic. I love writing Sam so much, and I can't wait to learn more about him in FATWS! Tonight's chapter will be a lot longer and it's aaaalll Steve and Bucky, so look forward to that! Thank you so much for all the comments, bookmarks, and kudos <3 It means so much to me that people are enjoying this fic as much as I have enjoyed writing it. See you all later tonight! 
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old memories resurface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spotify playlist ~ https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7irX2L77FOCzBlYlRBFAHb?si=EybrpWQlSLqft4R6iEjj9Q

**Time: 0900 Hours**

**Location: Somewhere in Northeastern Canada**

**Temperature: 38 degrees Fahrenheit**

**15 Days Since Steve Rogers’ Disappearance**

Steve was measuring the passage of time by the progress of his wounds. 

A few of the burns were more severe, and his body was taking longer to bounce back than normal, but even still, the deep mangled reds and purples of the burn tissue were gradually fading to pink with each passing day. 

He usually woke up alone, with his few remaining bandages already changed. This morning was no different. 

Steve groaned as he twisted onto his side, propping himself up on his forearm. A beam of sunlight peaked in through the front window, illuminating the layer of dust that had settled back onto the overturned crate. 

For the past week or so, Bucky had been a ghost, a dark shadow just barely on the edge of Steve’s sight. Sometimes, when he was just between sleeping and waking, he’d hear the soft click of the front door closing, and boots trudging off into the snow. He tried his best to get up and move while the sun was out, and with each new day it became easier to take another step. By mid-afternoon, he’d lay down for a nap, and when he awoke, the moon would be high and a warm bowl of soup would be at his bedside.

But today...today felt different. There was an itch just beneath his skin that he couldn’t scratch while bedridden. Something about the way the light bounced off the sloping walls, or the gentle wrinkles and creases in the worn blanket draped over his legs; it was urging him to get up and _move_.

When he made his way into the living room, he found it unsurprisingly empty. Once again, the house was quiet, save for the soft tinkling of the radio. And once again, Steve was drawn to that gorgeous view set above the kitchen sink. The way the mountains sloped between each other so elegantly, and the smooth transition from ice to bare rock to plush green grass—it was like something out of a fairy tale. 

_There are certainly worse places to be stuck washin’ dishes,_ Steve thought as he stepped across the threshold. Unfortunately, his journey to the kitchen was not as smooth as the mountain’s slopes. He flinched when his foot landed in a puddle of slush by the front door. He looked down at his now-soaked sock and chuckled under his breath. _Buck always forgot to use the doormat when he’d come home from the docks—_

Steve had to stop himself. His throat felt tight, but his eyes were still dry, and his sock was wet, and his body was aching. He had to make himself useful. Cleaning was something useful, something that didn’t require thinking. 

He took a deep breath before stepping out of the puddle and peeling both of his socks off. He made his way over to the fireplace, enjoying the soft creaks of the floorboards under his feet as he went. The fire had been banked overnight, so he stoked it with some crumpled up newspaper before setting his socks on the mantle to dry. He was ready to tackle the kitchen. 

He took his time opening up all the cabinets, making a mental inventory of their contents and pulling out anything that seemed useful (or like it needed a good wash). Most of the shelves were empty, and _all_ of them were coated in a thin layer of white dust. A hundred years ago, it would have sent him into a coughing fit. But that was back then. 

Steve managed to scrounge up a few useful items, including some pots and pans, a few extra ceramic plates and bowls, and a large cook’s knife that seemed to have gotten separated from the rest of the knife block. He quickly set to work, filling the sink with warm water and getting a lather going under the faucet with the bar of soap that was set on the windowsill. He enjoyed the repetitive motion of meticulously scrubbing every dish with the washcloth, drying it, and setting it aside. It grounded him in the present moment. 

When he was on the last plate, the once pleasantly inconspicuous radio static started to come into focus. He turned his head and gawked at the old receiver as it crackled out a familiar tune, the words floating towards his ears line by line.

_I love you...._

_And you alone were meant for me…._

_Please give your loving heart to me…._

_And say we’ll never part—_

He put down the plate, and the rag, and braced his palms against the edge of the sink. The metal was sharply cold against his skin. Suddenly, he didn’t feel much like washing dishes anymore. 

Steve swiftly shuffled everything back into some semblance of tidiness before approaching the stereo and turning the volume _off_. It was time to move on. 

The living area, much like the kitchen, seemed to be evenly coated with a fine layer of dust, save for a few well-loved spots that were instead covered by a thin layer of dirt. Steve didn’t see anything that could amount to cleaning supply storage in the sparse living room, and he already knew the kitchen was empty. The bathroom was too small to store much of anything, so he figured the door on the far wall was his last resort. _Hopefully whoever lived here first thought well enough to have a linen closet_ , he thought to himself as he approached the mystery door and twisted the knob. He pushed outwards and immediately felt some tension from the wind pushing back at him. _A back door?_

The fresh afternoon air felt foreign on his bare skin. There was a pair of muddy rain boots set by the side of the house, and he slid his bare feet into them before tentatively stepping outside. The back of the cabin was like its own defined space, barely shielded from the rest of the wilderness, but still separate. Steve followed the L-shaped walls with his eyes—one likely belonging to the bedroom, the other the bathroom. The log siding was old, the rich wood color worn away to a pallid grey, dotted with sporadic green growths of moss. The small yard held a pile of logs, haphazardly covered by a black plastic tarp, as well as a few scattered tools and pieces of metal. Just beyond it stood the forest’s edge. The trees were so tall in comparison, looming over the roof and stretching their limbs out to block the blue sky. The world seemed like it was approaching from all sides, slowly but surely. 

Just like the building itself, all the miscellaneous tools stored out back were showing their age, blotched with red rust. Along with the logs, which had already piqued his interest, Steve spotted a metal wash basin leaned up against the bathroom wall and decided to bring it back inside with him. Laundry would be another useful task, something to keep his hands busy. 

After adding some logs to the fire, he filled the metal tub with warm water and set it down on some towels in front of the fireplace. He proceeded to strip the bedding and suds up the water with the soap he’d used for the dishes—he supposed detergent was a little too much to ask for—then got on his knees and got to work. He enjoyed the warmth of the now-hearty fire as he gently scrubbed the fabric between his fingers. Eventually, the linens were ready to soak for a little while, and Steve’s own clothes had gotten a little damp in the process. _Better add these to the pile,_ he thought. He shrugged off his shirt first, then stopped when his hands reached the stretchy waistband of his sweats. 

_Bucky never gave me underwear._ Steve turned to look at the front door, tightening his grip on the elastic. _If I take these off now…_ He still had cleaning he wanted to do before he took a shower. Bucky didn’t normally come home until around sunset, so the chances of getting walked in on were low. His pants definitely needed a good wash, and technically there was nothing _stopping_ him from dusting the bookshelves in the buff. 

Steve looked down at his lap, readjusting his grip on the elastic. _Imagine if the papers caught wind of this._ He let out a soft chuckle to himself. _Captain America takes a few weeks off work and turns into some debauched housewife…_

He bit his lip as he slowly rolled the sweatpants down over his thighs, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of the soft fabric pulling against his skin. When he readjusted his legs to slide them off completely, tossing them away, he felt a strange weight lifted off his chest. He was sitting alone, in the middle of the floor, naked as the day he was born, with nothing to keep him warm but the fire smoldering in front of him—no one to keep him company except his own thoughts. He took a moment to look down at his body: at the cords of muscle in his arms, the purplish-pink tinge of the burnt flesh still healing on his abdomen, the little blonde hairs coating his legs. He slowly ran his hand across the inside of his thigh, feeling the bumps and grooves, the softness of his skin. He’d never really thought of himself as soft before—or at least, not since the serum. 

_Thwack!_ Steve whipped his head around at the sudden noise, reflexively moving his hand from his inner thigh to between his legs, in a sad attempt to cover himself. _Thwack!_ The sound rang out again, and he relaxed his muscles when he realized it was just a strong gust of wind, shaking the window’s glass inside the pane. But the goosebumps remained, even as he stood up and dumped the remaining laundry into the bucket to let it soak. 

Without a proper feather duster, Steve resorted to using another kitchen rag to gently wipe down the bookshelves set into the far wall. He didn’t have to do much moving around, as there weren’t that many books left over from the previous occupants. Very few of the volumes appeared to have been touched since Bucky moved in. _A damn shame_ , Steve thought as he tidied a collection of Jules Verne’s stories. _Bucky used to love to read_. He’d obviously had his nose in _I, Robot_ , and a few of the other space-age type novels, but figured he would have devoured the entire collection by now if— _if…_

As he continued scanning the wall, he came across what looked like an old photo frame, maybe a foot wide, leaning up against the open shelves. Curious, Steve picked it up and turned it, only to find a very old, very dusty mirror. The frame was simple; painted wood with slight bevelling. It was nothing fancy, but neither was anything they owned in the tenement back in Brooklyn, and that sure felt like home to him. He took a quick break from tidying the bookcases to wipe down the glass and bring the mirror into the bedroom, eventually deciding to mount it on the wall above the smaller, less permanent bookshelf next to the crate. _I’ll just lean it for now_ , he thought, adjusting the knick knacks on the top shelf so there was room for the frame to rest. When he was sure it was steady, he took a second to look at himself in the reflection.

Steve traced the length of his body with his eyes, took in all the bumps and curves. He turned to the side, following the lines of his chest down to his abdomen. Most of his bruises had disappeared, and he had no need for bandages anymore, but he still felt a slight ache between his ribs. Soon, his waist became his hips, then his hips became his thighs. He delicately ran a hand over the back of one of them, just to feel that softness he’d felt earlier. When his fingertips grazed the underside of his right butt cheek, his eyes flicked up towards his face. His cheeks were tinted a soft pink. He looked so… _young_.

When he returned to his work in the living room, he found that he’d finally reached the shelves behind Bucky’s armchair. He wasn’t expecting to find a familiar black leather bound notebook, hidden amongst the adventure stories and hunting manuals. It was the one he’d seen in the bedroom when he’d first woken up, clearly out of place without even a lick of dust on it. With its plain cover and attached ribbon bookmark, it was unmistakably a diary.

When he returned to his work in the living room, he found that he’d finally reached the shelves behind Bucky’s armchair. He wasn’t expecting to find a familiar black leather bound notebook, hidden amongst the adventure stories and hunting manuals. It was the one he’d seen in the bedroom when he’d first woken up, clearly out of place without even a lick of dust on it. With its plain cover and attached ribbon bookmark, it was unmistakably a diary.

Steve hesitated for a moment, his fingertips barely grazing the spine as he pondered picking it up. Bucky had been so _cautious_ ever since Steve had woken up, and the idea of getting a glimpse inside his head was itching at him from under his skin. He glanced over his shoulder one last time at the front door, and at the sun, still sitting high above the tree line, before snatching the book off the shelf and opening it. 

Suddenly, Steve was bombarded with memories: pictures and newspaper clippings, pieces of pamphlets taken from his Smithsonian exhibition, even a ripped piece of cloth from an old army uniform that had been stapled to the page. His eyes followed each disparate piece as they connected to one another through scribbles of Bucky’s own text.

  * _Captain America_
    * _1943, Azzano_
    * _Howling Commandos?_
    * ~~_Arnim Zola_ ~~



The pictures of him in his uniform were large and in full color, dominating large sections of the notebook. Steve couldn’t help but trace a finger over one particularly heroic illustration of himself mid-salute—It was almost _mythical_. His fingertip gently followed the line of his chiseled jaw, up through to his sharp cheekbones, and into his bright blue eyes: sharp, stoic and unwavering. The man in the painting was so confident, so sure of himself and his duty to his country. Steve envied that man, for himself _and_ for Bucky. He quickly turned to the next page.

  * _Bucky Barnes_
    * Brooklyn, New York
    * Dock worker, Soldier
    * Rebecca? 


  * _Steve Rogers_
    * _Mother: Sarah?_
    * _Pneumonia, winter, 1937_
    * Paintings, paint on his hands— 



Steve’s grip on the notebook tightened as his hands began to shake. Attached to that same page was a copy of a photo he recognized—not just because it had been archived, by S.H.I.E.L.D. and later by the Library of Congress, but because he _remembered_ it. 

It was the summer of 1939. Bucky had come home on a Friday evening after depositing his paycheck. He’d already blown some of it on a Kodak Brownie that they couldn’t afford with their budget, and Steve chastised him for it before reluctantly posing for a photo. He could hear Bucky’s voice clear as day, insisting on Steve “posing natural” for him; sitting on the fire escape with his sketchbook, looking out over the horizon. _Like you’re searching for inspiration, doll._ Steve used to hate when Bucky called him that, or at least, he pretended to hate it. Now he’d kill to hear him say those words again, even once. He remembers turning to Buck and telling him, “your ugly mug is inspiration enough” with a big dumb grin on his face, before hearing the shutter snap. 

No one had ever told him who’d sorted through their apartment after he’d become Captain America, when his possessions had gone from worthless to priceless overnight. He never liked the idea of some government agent picking through his and Bucky’s belongings, rummaging through their memories of each other like they weren’t real people. The world didn’t see them as warm bodies anymore, only as storybook characters to be dissected and rewritten, or as statues to be politely commemorated. Steve wasn’t quite sure which one was worse. 

Gently, he closed the notebook and set it back on the shelf, hidden in the dark behind Bucky’s armchair. After a brief once over with the towel, he decided the shelf was clean enough that he could stop for the day. He dropped the rag and headed over to the washbasin. The clothes and the towel seemed to have soaked long enough, and he wrung them out and laid them to dry on the floor, aided by the warmth of the fire. Steve looked down at himself again, and at the layer of sweat gathering on his stomach, reflecting the light of the crackling flames. He decided he needed a shower. 

The feeling of hot water rolling down his back was like a soothing balm, quieting Steve’s cluttered mind just long enough to let his heartbeat settle again. This time, his gaze avoided his own body. Instead, he kept his eyes closed, pressing his face into the shower spray, savoring the feeling of two weeks worth of grime slowly dissolving off his skin. There wasn’t any shampoo or conditioner, but he lathered the bar soap into his hair anyways. The sensation of his fingertips massaging his scalp made him more awake than he’d been in, well, longer than he could remember.

He was gently rubbing his palms over his face when he heard another _thwack_ coming from the living room. He didn’t pay it any mind until he heard the accompanying sound of the door swinging shut and boots thumping on the wood floor. _Bucky—_

Steve abruptly shut off the shower, then froze, his hands covering his mouth as he carefully listened to Bucky’s footsteps moving throughout the cabin. He’d left the bedroom door cracked when he stripped the sheets from the bed, and Bucky was surely peeking his head in by now, wondering where he’d gone. He heard a voice echo across the room.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice feigned steadiness, deep and strong, but it wavered as he repeatedly called out Steve’s name.

 _He thinks I’m gone again. Last time he...He’ll think I—_

A tiny ball of panic grew inside his stomach as he stood there, soaking wet and completely naked. He couldn’t afford to lose Bucky’s trust again, and over something so stupid, so _easy_. But at the same time... 

_My clothes and towel are..._

This... _version_ of Bucky had seen him naked before, when he’d brought him to the cabin and dressed his wounds. Steve closed his eyes and sighed, bracing himself, before he stepped out of the shower and into the living room. 

“I’m right here, Buck,” he announced flatly. His eyes were still closed and he was quiet as a dormouse, but he was out there. His skin prickled with goosebumps at the sudden rush of cool air, and once again his hands jumped to cover himself. 

Bucky was silent, and Steve reluctantly opened his eyes to find him standing there across the room, staring right at him with his mouth held slightly open.

_“Bucky?”_

He was quiet for another moment, before he set his jaw and shoulders and turned his head towards the kitchen. 

“I thought…you were gone.” His voice cracked when spoke. 

“I know Buck, I’m sorry.” Steve took a step forward, tempted to raise his hands up in a peace offering before thinking better of it. “I didn’t mean to make you worry—” 

He cut Steve off, this time with his voice level, and his jaw set. “You should get dressed, and eat. I brought fish.” He gestured towards the kitchen counter. 

Steve didn’t bother to look, keeping his eyes on the floor in front of him as he gathered up his towel and clothes and swiftly made his way towards the bedroom. 

“Steve?” 

He froze in the doorway, the bundle of fabric nearly slipping out from his arms entirely. 

“Yeah, Buck?”

Again, silence. Steve didn’t bother turning around to see his face.

“Leave the towel out here...when you’re done with it.”

“Sure thing, Buck.” And then the bedroom door shut behind him, and suddenly he was alone. 

Steve let out a deep, beleaguered sigh, and all of his pent-up frustration gradually escaped his body like a deflating balloon. For the briefest moment, a wicked, _selfish_ thought crossed his mind, but he buried it just as soon as it came. 

_I’m not sure how much more I can do for him…_

He set his things haphazardly on the bare mattress, accidentally catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he did. When he finally turned around, he wasn’t sure he recognized the man staring back at him.

____________

Steve got dressed to the sound of Bucky showering, before venturing out into the living room and going through the motions of preparing the fish. He tried to force the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board to drown out the water running in the background, but all that accomplished were several new holes in the cutting board. While waiting for the fish to cook, he finished up drying the bedlinen and placed his used bath towel on Bucky’s armchair, not willing to bring it any closer to the bathroom than that. Soon enough, the fish was done, and Steve had time to spare to stir fry some frozen vegetables he’d dug out of the freezer, setting out two plates at the dining table. 

He didn’t wait for Bucky before he started eating. When the tap eventually did turn off, and the bathroom door opened, Steve tried his best to keep his eyes glued to his plate. What he wasn’t expecting was for Bucky to strike up a conversation with him while he was toweling off in the middle of the living room.

“Is this what you got up to today?” He asked, his tone suspiciously nonchalant.

Steve instinctively looked up from his food at the sound of Bucky’s voice, only to find him standing completely nude in front of the fire, toweling off his hair. He was gesturing to the wash bucket, still full of dirty water.

“Uh...yeah,” Steve stuttered. Now he was the one with his mouth gaping open like a fish. “I tidied up the kitchen too, and the shelves.”

Bucky was silent for a moment, as he often was during their conversations. Steve took the time to selfishly survey Bucky’s body. The light of the fire flickered across his metal arm like lightning against a dark sky. He scanned up the length of the appendage until he reached the point it met Bucky’s flesh, now mottled and pink, after so many years of being haphazardly attached. Steve couldn’t help but wonder if it was still painful. 

The rest of his body retained scars as well, despite the obvious presence of some form of serum in his blood. The most prominent was the fresh line of pink stitches trailing up the side of his stomach. There were deep cuts and slashes across his abdomen and along his legs, running from the outside of his thighs inwards. Steve felt the ghost of his own hand running along the hairs there, and suddenly had the intrusive thought of running his palm along Bucky’s inner thigh, feeling how soft or rough his skin was. In turn, he thought of Bucky doing the same for him, at which point he decided to turn back towards his food.

That’s when Bucky spoke up again. “Don’t...don’t do that again, ok? You’ll hurt yourself.”

Steve instinctively scoffed at the other man’s words; _Like he’d heard them a thousand times before._

“I’m _fine_ , Buck.”

He went back to picking at his food, and eventually Bucky dressed himself and joined him in silence. 

When they had both cleaned their plates, Bucky reached his hand across the table, preemptively stopping Steve from starting the dishes. 

“I, um—” Steve watched his eyes flick frantically back and forth between his hand and something on the ground behind him. “I brought you something, from town.” 

Steve quietly gasped, waiting with bated breath as Bucky rummaged through one of his shopping bags sitting on the ground. “I remember…I remember you used to like this.” His voice was quiet, his back turned and hunched over the cloth bag as he spoke. “Sorry if it’s the wrong kind…” Steve wasn’t expecting the lump in his throat that formed when Bucky finally turned around. 

He held out a sketchbook, with pencils and a children’s watercolor set to match. They were simple, generic-brand items he’d seen at countless stores before, but that didn’t matter in the slightest. Bucky had bought them for _him._

_He remembered._

Steve truly didn’t know what to say. His tongue felt like it had turned to lead in his mouth. All of his anxiety from before had melted away, no longer even a passing thought in his mind. He slowly reached out and took them from Bucky’s hands, setting it all down on the table in front of his empty plate. He ran his pointer finger delicately across the cardboard cover of the sketchbook. When he turned to look at Bucky, his eyes had begun to water.

“ _Thank you_ , Buck. They’re perfect.” Now he was the one whose voice was cracking. He smiled up at Bucky—who was now standing in front of him—big and full and _honest_. He recalled looking through Buck’s own notebook, and finding that photo he’d snapped with the Brownie cam. _He really remembered._ Bucky stared back at him, the corner of his lip slightly upturned.

“I’m glad you like it.” He answered, and without even thinking, he reached out and patted Steve on the shoulder. 

For a moment, they both froze, just looking at each other. The burn of Bucky’s hand through his shirt felt worse than any of his other wounds, but he was even more afraid of how it would feel once that hand was gone. He had to do something.

“Sleep with me tonight, Buck.”

Steve immediately winced. He’d blurted it out so fast he hardly realized what he was asking. Maybe his anxiety hadn’t been a burden, but a defense mechanism against his own quick mouth. _Stupid, stupid, stupid..._

Bucky just blinked at him at first, mouth hanging slightly open, just as it had earlier when he’d walked in on him naked. His right hand was still there, now gripping even tighter to Steve’s shoulder. Then, Steve felt the gentle caress of a thumb. 

“Okay.” Bucky said, dropping his hand to his side. Now Steve was the one picking his jaw up off the floor.

____________

Just like dinner, they prepped for sleep in a semi-comfortable silence. Bucky insisted on being the one to dress the bed for them, and Steve obliged him, leaning on the door frame while he watched Bucky put on the fitted sheet. Once that task was complete, Bucky had to change into his sleep clothes, so Steve sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him. He’d set his shiny new sketchbook down on the bedside table, and his fingers itched to reach out for it. _Tomorrow_ , he told himself. _It’s bedtime, and you don’t wanna upset Bucky again tonight, right?_

He couldn’t stop his legs from twitching furiously as he sat there, listening to Bucky wandering around the living room, prepping the cabin for the night. He was suddenly _so close_ to him—as close as he’d ever been since he woke up here—and he couldn’t afford to push him away again. He wasn’t sure his heart could take it. 

“You can draw in the morning.” Steve’s eyes shot up from his lap at the sound of Bucky’s voice. He stood in the doorway, wearing a pair of grimy grey sweatpants that were riding up on his calves. He held the stool from the living room loosely by the leg, and had a book tucked under his arm. “You need to rest.” 

Steve squirmed a little where he sat, picking at the blanket with his fingers. “You gonna read to me again, Buck?”

Bucky brought the stool to the side of the bed and sat down. “I figured...it’d help you sleep.”

Steve smiled, scooting back onto the bed and stretching his legs. “Yeah, I like hearing your voice.” He propped himself up against the wall and shrugged the blanket over his lap. “‘Makes me feel calm.”

Bucky groaned and cleared his throat, then began to read: 

“ _Robbie was not to be won over so easily. He gazed stubbornly at the sky, and shook his head even more emphatically. ‘Please, Robbie, please give me a ride!_ _If you don’t, I’m going to cry!’ and the girl’s face twisted appallingly in preparation._ ”

Steve chuckled at Bucky’s loose approximation of the little girl’s voice. Without thinking, he dropped his left hand at his side: an unconscious invitation. Bucky paused his storytelling for a moment, considering, before his right hand crept up the side of the bed, hesitantly landing in Steve’s palm. Steve immediately felt a coarse warmth enter him through the pads of Bucky’s calloused fingers. 

He continued, _“Hard-hearted Robbie paid scant attention to this dreadful possibility, and shook his head a third time. Gloria found it necessary to play her trump card. ‘If you don’t, I won’t tell you any more stories, that’s all. Not one—’ Robbie gave in immediately and unconditionally before this ultimatum, nodding his head vigorously until the metal of his neck hummed._ ”

Steve hummed contentedly, his eyes beginning to flutter closed. He gave Bucky’s hand a gentle squeeze, then a light tug, beckoning him closer. He just kept reading.

“ _Carefully, he raised the little girl and placed her on his broad, flat shoulders. ‘You’re an air-coaster, Robbie, you’re a big, silver aircoaster! Hold out your arms straight. — You got to, Robbie, if you’re going to be an aircoaster.’ The logic was irrefutable. Robbie’s arms were wings catching the air currents and he was a silver ‘coaster._ ” 

This time, Bucky squeezed back. 

“Bucky,” Steve said softly. He turned his head and rested his chin on his right shoulder, biting his lip as he felt his cheeks start to turn red. “Are you…are you gonna join me or what?” As Steve stared out the side window, into the black abyss of the forest, he remembered that photo Bucky had taken of him on the fire escape.

Something about that day, the way the hot metal floor felt against his skin, the sound of his pencil scratching against paper as he chiseled out Bucky’s jaw; the memories were so close behind his eyes he could almost touch them. His chest tightened, and his heart started thumping in his ears as he waited for Bucky to move. 

His hand slid from Steve’s, and the cold air of the bedroom briefly rushed in to fill the vacuum had Bucky left. _A familiar feeling_ , Steve thought. The left side of the bed began to dip. Steve let out a groan, keeping his eyes on the window. He could just barely make out a reflection of the two of them etched onto the glass. 

“This better?” Bucky’s voice was hoarse. Steve flinched at the feeling of a cold metallic hand gently resting on his waist, but the warmth from Bucky’s chest, timidly pressed up against his back, soon made up for it. 

“Yeah—uh, much better.” Steve cleared his throat, awkwardly shuffling backwards to press into that wall of heat _._ “Warmer.” 

The sound of the icy wind beating against the walls overtook their voices, and they laid there in silence together, neither of them quite tired enough to fall asleep yet. Eventually, Steve felt Bucky turn around and switch off the light. Something about the darkness made him feel safer, like they could cloak themselves in it forever and hide from the rest of the world’s prying eyes.

“Hey Buck? Do you...do you remember the winter of ‘37? How cold it got that year?”

Bucky didn’t respond, but Steve could tell he was listening. It was in the shift of his shoulders, and the way his heart started to beat just a little bit faster. “Cuz’ I sure do. You...you used to keep me warm at night, just like this. And I would beg you not to, but you knew I needed it.” Steve laughed under his breath. “You used to make fun of me for needing a heated quilt, but all I had was _y_ —” 

“ _Go to sleep, doll._ ” 

Steve gasped. Bucky’s voice was a whisper, almost imperceptibly quiet, but his words rang in Steve’s ears like church bells. His whole body shivered beneath the blankets.

“G’night, Buck,” he whispered back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two fun historical inaccuracies in this chapter: (1) The Kodak Six-20 Flash Brownie didn't come out until 1940, but it was a very popular early budget camera so I thought Steve and Bucky were more likely to have one. (2) The original version of (I love you) For Sentimental Reasons came out in November of 1945, and the Ella Fitzgerald cover of it that you can find on my Spotify playlist wasn't released until 1955. Either way, it's a Stucky song, so I obviously had to use it. Hope you enjoyed this one cuz boy was it long! See you all again tomorrow <3
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve starts drawing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spotify playlist ~ https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7irX2L77FOCzBlYlRBFAHb?si=gFUvX9nQQDWY2VOQSxUgyg

_A warm beam of light gently stretched across the length of the tenement’s kitchen, which to be fair, wasn’t that large. They couldn’t afford much back then. Luckily, he was pretty small too, so he didn’t take up all that much room from—_

_“Bucky! How was work today?” Steve perked up when the door opened and Bucky walked in, haphazardly kicking off his work boots at the door. His hair was clipped short and his face looked so...so young. He smiled and Steve’s heart sang._

_“Hey doll, how’s it going? You cookin’ up something good for us?”_

_Steve’s first reaction to Bucky’s teasing had always been to bite back with another quip, but somehow this time, he came up empty. Instead, the first words to slip from his mouth were:_

_“Of course, sweetheart. I made your favorite—”_

That’s not what I meant to say, _he thought._ Something’s not right here. 

_Time had begun to slow. Bucky took a step towards him. Steve looked down, only to find his body...it was wrong. He was huge, maybe even bigger than Bucky, and he was wearing his ma’s old apron, stretched taught across his chest. He recognized the floral print, and a few of the more prominent stains._

_“M’so glad to be home…” The sound of Bucky’s voice dripped into his ears like molasses. Suddenly, a shadow was looming over him, and he felt the presence of a frigid hand grazing his lower back._

_When he looked up, Bucky was gone. He was alone, and he was sitting—sitting on the edge of his bed. He recognized the lumps in the mattress. He could hear the sound of a radio playing, but he couldn’t quite place the song. A woman’s voice crooned at him from off in the distance, drifting in through the open window. He took a peak over his shoulder and looked outside. He caught just a glimpse of someone sitting on the fire escape, but their face was obscured. The familiar smell of cigarette smoke wafted into the room._

_~I’ve given you my heart ~_

Steve woke to the distinct sound of someone cutting logs outside his window. The sunshine washed over his legs, wrapped up in the tattered old sleeping bag they used as a blanket. He could hear birds chirping, and the steady swing of an axe against wood every few seconds. Bucky moved like clockwork. 

Steve sat up slowly, taking his time adjusting his wool socks and combing his fingers through his hair, before he rolled off the cot and shuffled towards the front window. He hadn’t noticed Bucky waking up or leaving him. _I must have been out cold after all that housework,_ Steve thought. He reached down, shoving his fingers under the bottom pane and wiggling it loose so he could push it up and open. The cool breeze felt nice on his bare skin. He bent down, resting his forearms on the windowsill and leaning on them as he peeked his head outside. 

_Thwack!_ Bucky had just taken another swing, splitting another log. Steve couldn’t tell if his pile was such a decent size because of how long he’d been working, or because of how mechanically efficient he was at it. He had tied his flannel around his waist and was only wearing a grimy white t-shirt underneath. Steve carefully observed the spots on Bucky’s body where sweat had gathered, where the cotton of the t-shirt stuck to his skin; under his arms, across his stomach, a thin line split down the center of his chest. When Bucky turned around to grab another log, he saw it on his lower back too. When he turned back around, he smiled. Steve smiled back. 

Every time he took a swing with the axe, the veins in his forearm tensed. Steve followed the muscles up as they contracted, eventually disappearing under the hem of his short sleeve. His eyes travelled further up Bucky’s body, and he caught a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead onto his cheek. 

Steve held his breath and watched as Bucky gently set down the axe, leaning it against the old tree trunk at his feet. He took the hem of his shirt into his right fist and dragged it up and across his face, wiping the beads of sweat away—and momentarily exposing the firm lines of his stomach, with a line of dark hair trailing down to the hem of his pants. Steve bit his lip. As he let go of his now wrinkled t-shirt, his eyes focused on a patch of ground near his foot. Steve watched in awe as Bucky slowly knelt down, carefully plucking a crocus from the wet grass with his left hand. He brought the delicate flower up to his face, just barely grinning as he twirled it between his metal fingers.

Suddenly, Steve had a _terrible_ idea.

“Hey, Buck!” 

_Instant regret_. Steve’s shoulders reflexively shrunk away from the window as Bucky suddenly turned at the sound of his name. He quickly shoved the little crocus into his jeans pocket and proceeded to pick up his axe. He stared right at Steve, his chest rising and falling with hard, even breaths. He was waiting for him to speak. 

Steve straightened up a little, squaring his shoulders and putting on a weak smile.

“Can I…” _Spit it out, Rogers._ “Can I draw you?”

Bucky’s eyes widened, his lips parting slightly, but he didn’t speak right away. Steve could see him running his fingers up and down along the edge of the axe handle. He turned, his hair falling like a curtain over his face as he grabbed another piece of wood.

Then, a muffled, “Yeah…”

Steve didn’t notice how tightly his fingers had been gripping the windowsill until he let go of it.

He laughed, quiet, but clear and bright, and took one last glance at the way Bucky’s broad shoulders rippled underneath his t-shirt before turning to grab his sketchbook off of the bedside table. 

____________

It was after dinner. The sun had set over the cabin and they were huddled by the fireplace, quietly enjoying the warmth. The light of the flames flickered against the glaze on their used dishes resting in the sink. Steve was leaning up against the arm of the living room chair, his body just barely grazing Bucky’s calf, his head almost resting on his right knee. Bucky was firmly planted in his regular position, legs slightly parted, completely focused on his reading, but Steve noticed his socked feet anxiously sliding back and forth along the creaky hardwood floor.

Steve had his sketchbook in hand, steadily scratching away at the paper. He was finishing up his portrait from earlier in the day, just adjusting some lines and finishing the shading. He’d decided after the initial sketch to get out the colored pencils and fill in some things here and there; the sparkling blue of Bucky’s eyes, his pink lips, his rich brown hair falling over his face. The portrait caught him not mid-swing, but just afterwards, in that quiet moment when he’d gently plucked the crocus from the dewey grass. He was on one knee, his right hand resting on his thigh while he carefully inspected the flower in his left. The soft purple petals contrasted beautifully with his striking blue eyes. 

The axe was barely an element of the scene, disappearing into the background as it leaned up against the tree stump, shrouded in shadows and tall grass, as though it had always been there, collecting moss. 

Steve smiled as he gently scratched the pencil lead along Bucky’s brow. He could feel a pair of eyes fixed on the back of his head. 

He glanced over his shoulder. Bucky appeared to be reading his book, but he was obsessively fiddling with the corner of the page. 

Steve huffed a little under his breath. Bucky didn’t respond. After his success the previous night, Steve felt a little more comfortable pushing him. _Time to be a little reckless,_ he thought. He paused his scribbling to _readjust_ slightly, scooting closer towards the chair before gently resting his right cheek against Bucky’s thigh. 

He immediately felt Bucky’s leg muscles tense, and watched his foot curl up in his sock. 

“Bucky?” He asked, lifting his chin slightly. The other man was still staring at his book, pretending to read it. He quietly grunted to indicate he was listening. “Is this ok?” Steve asked again, gazing up at him with the most demure look he could muster.

Bucky sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. “Mmm...yeah.”

Steve smiled. Bucky’s face remained blank. He went back to his book, and Steve went back to his drawing. He liked feeling the firm mass of Bucky’s leg pressed up against his back, like an anchor. But that anchor was slipping on its moorings more than most.

Steve was penciling in the delicate shadows of Bucky’s eyelashes across his cheek when he felt the jerk of a knee at the center of his back, along with the sound of a tight exhale. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch Bucky’s eyes flitting back towards his reading, still seemingly on the same page as before. He kept his gaze away from Steve’s as he cleared his throat.

Steve couldn’t help but crack a dopey smile.

The cabin was silent for a few moments, save for the crackling of the fire and the gentle creak of the icy wind rapping its fingertips against the window panes.

“You wanna see your portrait, Buck?” His voice filled the room.

Steve noticed Bucky’s face tighten as he stared off into the flickering light of the fireplace. He brought his right hand to his knee and curled it into a soft fist.

He bit his lip.

“Uh...yeah...can I?”

Steve smiled up at him, warm and bright, just like the fire tickling their toes. 

“Of course! All you gotta do is ask,” Steve said.

Bucky quietly grunted in response. Carefully, Steve passed the sketchbook up to Bucky, leaning slightly on his side to get a better view of the other man’s face. He gingerly took the book from Steve’s hand, after setting his own facedown on the armrest, his fingers reflexively worrying the corner of the page. 

Steve hesitated as he watched Bucky focus in on the open sketchbook, scanning it back and forth intently with sharp, perceptive eyes. 

“You like it?” He asked softly, slowly moving to rest his chin on his forearms, folded in Bucky’s lap.

Bucky was silent for a long moment. 

Steve watched his pupils expand and contract as he focused in on the image, slowly and carefully following the lines and curves of his own body. The room was once again quiet, save for the ever-crackling fire, the sound of breath on wrinkled paper—the gentle whirring of Bucky’s left arm as it gently quivered under the weight of the sketchbook and its contents. Steve swore that somewhere beneath the red and orange dancing flames, reflecting on the whites of Bucky’s eyes, he could see tears.

Eventually, Bucky flicked his tongue over his lip, then swallowed. “Yeah, uh…It’s good. I like it.” He nodded quickly, his throat tight and his voice even tighter. 

He swiftly handed the notebook back to Steve, making sure to keep his gaze fixed to a spot on the wall, somewhere off to the left of the fireplace. Without so much as a grunt, he plucked _I, Robot_ from where it sat on the armrest and went back to reading, and Steve went back to sketching, getting lost in the fine strands of Bucky’s hair, etched in cheap graphite. 

As the night dragged on, the fire grew dimmer and the tips of Steve’s pencils dulled, but the silence remained. It wasn’t exactly _comfortable_ , but Steve figured it was what Bucky needed, and he was more than willing to give him that. 

Eventually, though, the time between page-turns grew longer and longer, and the subtle twitch in Bucky’s leg returned.

He cleared his throat, and Steve smiled.

“Do you...do you wanna hang it?” He asked.

Steve’s smile grew wider, and he bit his lip as he kept on shading beneath Bucky’s chin. 

“I’d love to, but—” He paused his pencil movement, “why do you ask?” 

Steve could feel Bucky briefly tense up against his back. 

“I um…” He paused. Steve glanced over his shoulder and up at Bucky, only to find him once again gazing off towards the fireplace, the now-gentler flames casting a warm glow over his cheeks. “I—I remember, you used to hang em’ up all around...back in the day.”

Steve quietly gasped, his eyes growing wide as Bucky went back to fiddling with the corners of his book. Eventually, this fiddling seemed to turn back into reading, and Steve suddenly felt the lick of the hot fire against his toes and the itch of the pencil gently resting against the ringed spine of his sketchbook. 

Before turning around, he took one last look up at Bucky. 

“We can hang it up as soon as I’m done.” 

____________

They were silent as they changed into their pajamas. They stood with their backs to one another. Steve flicked his tongue out over his lips as he pulled the hem of his thicker nightshirt over his stomach. He looked down at the bed, following the minute creases in the blanket with his eyes. The pillow sat flat at the head of the cot, and underneath it was that folded up sleeping bag that had appeared when the snow had picked up and hadn’t left since, not even as the weather turned. Tonight, the winds were sharp, lashing at the window panes incessantly and causing the cabin to creak, like the hull of an old ship.

Steve peaked over his shoulder, fingers still clasping his shirt hem. Bucky stood stock-still, right hand splayed out overhead, propping his body up against the wall. He was standing directly in front of the shelf, and the old mirror, wearing nothing but those grey sweats he’d brought in with him. Steve didn’t have to guess what he was looking at. 

Suddenly, Bucky squared his shoulders and took a step back. Steve reflexively twitched and turned back around. The bottom of his shirt had wrinkled. 

Bucky sighed deeply as he turned on the ball of his foot. Steve could feel cold blue eyes on his back as he finally spoke. 

“I’ll, uh, put you to bed now, if you’re ready.” 

His voice was quiet and even. Just like it was every other night. 

Steve felt the ghost of warm fingers on his skin, barely calloused but still bigger and firmer than he ever thought his would be. He could smell hot soup full of roasted vegetables and spices tickling his congested nose, and he felt the relief of a cold towel being gently draped over his forehead. He could hear cars honking at each other on the street below, and a gentle shadow pulling an old tattered blanket up to his chin, covering all 90-odd pounds of him. 

Maybe it was the relentless wind, or the sight of the flat pillow sitting alone at the end of the bed—but once again, something compelled him to _push_.

“Why don’t you sleep in here again.” He leveled his voice, just like Bucky had, and kept his eyes deftly trained on the broad, tan expanse of Bucky’s chest. 

Bucky responded by taking a step closer.

“Lie down, Steve, I’ll tuck you in,” He didn’t sound cross, or even tired. _He’s just...sure of himself, at least when it comes to me._ Steve could almost laugh, if he weren’t so desperate to reach him. 

He comfortably scoffed, “Not unless you’re coming with me, Sarge.” 

He could immediately tell Bucky was taken aback by his words, but he wasn’t about to go back to sleeping alone without a fight. 

Steve took a moment to square his shoulders, then stared Bucky down—looked at him right in the eyes, straight through to the back of his skull. This was a power he’d always possessed, no matter his size, and based on the way Bucky’s pupils began darting across the room, it was something else that the other man remembered about him. 

“Bucky…” He kept his voice soft but his gaze was steadfast. “Why don’t you wanna sleep with me? Are you worried about my injuries? Cuz the bruises are almost gone now, and—”

Steve suddenly froze with the delicate touch of fingertips to his wrist.

“ _No_ , I—” Bucky stared down at the floor. “That’s not why...”

When he trailed off, Steve kept pushing. 

“You remember, right? How we used to sleep together when it got cold?” Steve said. He left the words to sit for a moment, leaving space in the air for Bucky to speak, but he didn’t respond. Steve pressed further. “‘Cuz you know there ain’t nothing wrong with that, right? Is that what you’re worried about?”

Steve gulped and let out a shaky breath, twisting his wrist so that Bucky’s hand was now nestled in his, but he didn’t tighten his grip, and neither did Bucky.

“I—,” Now Steve was the one stuttering, his eyes quickly darting back down to his lap. All the confidence he’d built up was crumbling beneath him, and he wasn’t quite sure who he was talking to anymore. “I want you to know...whatever force, or—or _feeling_ told you to pull me from the river, or protect me from that explosion? I—” _I felt it too. I have for a hundred years._

He sensed a squeeze, then a calloused thumb softly running along his palm. Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, and Steve looked back up at his face, but found it was still hidden from him.

“I was scared I was gonna _hurt_ you,” Bucky choked out. He sounded _broken_. That once gentle thumb was now pressing firmly into the center of Steve’s hand. All he could do was hold on to him and listen. “In my sleep, I have—” He swallowed, thick and hard. “I have these _dreams_ , where I...where I hurt people. And I don’t wanna hurt you, Steve. I don’t wanna hurt anyone.” 

Bucky finally looked up, and every inch of Steve’s body tensed at the sight of him; at his bloodshot eyes, and the tracks of tears, left behind on his cheeks, now flushed red. He hated that the first thought that came to mind was how _human_ he looked. 

He held Bucky’s gaze again, met the endlessly deep blue of his eyes and watched them flicker, like a sky full of stars reflected onto a black sea. His lips were parted, but he didn’t speak. He only stared back at Steve, _pleading_ with him not to be scared, not to run away from him. Those words, even unspoken, cut through Steve like a cold, dull knife, slowly sawing him in half. 

“ _Bucky_ , I—” Steve _wished_ to high Heaven that he could somehow communicate to Bucky through touch alone, that his thoughts could gently slide down into his hand and permeate through the skin of his fingertips. “You’re not gonna hurt me, alright? I _trust_ you. You make me feel safe here.” _Just like you always have._

Bucky was still staring at him, his eye no longer a deep, imposing ocean, but a warm puddle after a rainstorm, gently filling in the cracks in the sidewalk. Steve could see a kid in those eyes, one he recognized. That same kid who used to splash in those puddles to get the two of them soaked, but would get down on his knees and beg forgiveness when the corners of Steve’s sketchbook would crinkle under the weight of the water. When he blinked, he swore he could see Bucky’s draft notice on the back of his eyelids, that shock of yellow paper crumpled up in the trash. _He thought I wouldn’t find it._

Suddenly, that urge to _push_ crept up back into his throat, but he quickly swallowed it down again. _Someday_ , he told himself. 

Steve sucked in a deep breath. “C’mon, let’s get some rest.” His smile was tight, and so was his grip on Bucky’s hand, now tugging him closer to the bed. He followed him, faithfully. 

____________

When Steve woke up the next morning, the first thing he saw was an old glass soda bottle sitting atop the ramshackle bookshelf. It was halfway full with clear water, and held a single, dainty crocus, barely poking out of the bottle's neck. He followed the lines of the stems and the delicate petals until he caught a glimpse of the upper left corner of the dingy old mirror. Tucked in the space between the grimy glass and the old wooden frame was Bucky’s portrait, gently severed from Steve’s notebook before being displayed—the edges of the paper barely torn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of waking up and falling asleep in this fic. To be honest, there's a lot of that in all of my fics. Sorry I don't know how to do anything more original than that lol - also, sorry about the weirdly formatted punctuation. Something about AO3's rich text input messes it up when you copy and paste. I try to catch them all when I bring the fic over from google drive but sometimes I miss a few. 
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve washes Bucky's hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spotify playlist ~ https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7irX2L77FOCzBlYlRBFAHb

_“Hey, Bucky!”_

_Buck was smiling as he came up over the hill towards the cabin. “What is it, doll?”_

_“Come look at this!” Steve was smiling too, at everything; the way the sun beamed down on him, warming his skin, the way the huge fluffy clouds cast their shadows over the green valley as they passed, the way Bucky’s voice echoed and sang so beautifully, with the crickets and sparrows hiding from each other in the tall grass. It was like a fairytale—a place they could only ever dream of when they were younger, when they’d trip and fall and scuff their knees on concrete._

_He enjoyed the sound of the grass crunching below Bucky’s feet behind him, and the feeling of his big, warm shadow looming over him like a thick blanket._

_“Hey, c’mere,” He murmured, leaning down to brush Steve’s earlobe with his bottom lip. He felt two strong hands running smoothly across his shoulders and down his arms until they were holding hands, and Bucky was pulling him up out of the wet grass._

_“Dance with me, doll.” The sweet crown of Bucky’s voice sent chills up Steve’s spine. The smooth metal of his left hand wrapped delicately around Steve’s waist, coming to rest on his lower back. Meanwhile Bucky’s right hand, pink and calloused, cradled Steve’s own. It was like their bodies were born to fit together._

_“I missed you.” Bucky’s voice became muddled as they swayed to the music, which was drifting in from...somewhere—Steve didn’t really know._

_“I missed you too,” Steve sighed, tucking his cheek into the crook of Bucky’s neck. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds wash over him. Bucky started to softly hum along with the song he still couldn’t place. The feeling of the wind slowly disappeared. Something was tickling the bottoms of his bare feet. When Steve’s eyes opened, they were inside the cabin—no, they were in Brooklyn, in their apartment. The floorboards cracked below them as they danced. Steve looked down and hundreds of crocuses sprouted from beneath the wood planks, purple petals blooming between their toes._

_Suddenly, his hand was empty. The room around him turned frigid and dark. He looked up, and he was alone, in a derelict bar in Switzerland. All the tables and chairs had been turned over, and every surface was coated in a thin layer of snow, blowing in through the shattered windows. The music was gone—all he could hear were gunshots and bombs in the distance and the howling winds of the Alps cutting into his cheek._

**Time: 1200 Hours**

**Location: Somewhere in Northeastern Canada**

**Temperature: 31 degrees Fahrenheit**

**23 Days Since Steve Rogers’ Disappearance**

After that night, there were no more questions about bedtime. Steve could finally get used to the feeling of Bucky’s firm chest pressed up against his back, and the cool, gentle touch of his metal hand on the center of his stomach. He spent less of his daylight hours alone too, enjoying the sight of Bucky coming up over the hill in mid-afternoon, always carrying something to eat. Whatever tense, tight air had been pressing them apart before had dissipated. Now the space between their bodies was looser, warmer, like the light and heat of the fire was following them everywhere, clinging to them. 

Those little touches were starting to add up, one by one: a sloppy, halfway hug in the doorframe while Steve helped him shrug off his coat, a hand carefully placed between Steve’s shoulder blades while he stood over the stove—the way he’d come over to Steve after he showered, casually running his fingers through his damp hair.

Just a few days ago, Steve was...frankly taken aback by Bucky’s behavior. He’d been minding his business, making the bed after he’d washed and dried the sheets, when Bucky had come home early. He was carrying another huge shopping bag full of unnecessary items—including more drawing paper for Steve. Steve said hello without turning around, and listened passively as Bucky placed the heavy bag down and eased off his boots. Then, suddenly, he’d felt a pair of strong arms wrap around his waist from behind, and a chin being nestled into the space where his shoulder met his neck. 

“Mmmm…’missed you today, Steve,” Bucky mumbled against his throat, gently swaying from side to side as he nuzzled him further. 

Steve was so shocked that he could only respond with a soft chuckle and a smile. “Missed you too, Buck,” He said, gently placing his hands on top of Bucky’s, which had settled over Steve’s stomach. They felt so _warm_ against him, even though moments earlier he’d been hiking through the frigid wilderness. The moment didn’t last, of course. Bucky’s hands soon slipped away and he padded off into the living room, mentioning something about dinner as he went, but Steve didn’t hear a word he said. He spent the rest of the evening trying to tamper down the full-body buzz he was feeling, and the following days were spent mulling over all these little moments in his mind.

 _It was all so...domestic_ , Steve thought. He could hardly stand it. 

The more his body healed, the more restless he felt. The world outside was still cold—just brisk enough to keep the icicles hanging from the roof, forcing the tops of the grass to poke their way out of a thin layer of snow. Steve could push up against the wilderness as hard as he wanted, but he had no power over how hard it pushed back. Instead, his pent-up energy filled the rapidly shrinking space of the cabin. The walls were no longer bare; now they were littered with pictures, as many as he could make in a day. He’d draw anything and everything: the striking view of the mountains from the kitchen window, sunlight catching on an old dusty bookshelf, the cracks and grooves of the stone fireplace stretching up to the ceiling, a vase of wilting flowers. He used his colored pencils and children’s paints as best he could, to show how the once-vibrant hues had gradually dripped and drained from the petals. 

That afternoon, he decided to venture out into the snow to collect more flowers for the cabin. The wet tufts of grass sticking up from the ground hid strikingly bright purple crocuses, mixed in with a few dandelions and daisies, still wilted from the harsh winter. He’d bundled himself up with two sweatshirts and three pairs of socks inside his boots, but he still felt the bite of the cold when he knelt down to pluck a bundle of the purple blossoms. The snow and mud soaked through the knees of his sweatpants, leaving a cold, damp spot that seemed to seep through to his bones. He ventured back inside with a small bouquet pinched between his pink fingers. His hands had gone a little numb, and he fumbled as he put them in their makeshift vase. He grabbed his sketchbook and watercolors from the bedroom and made himself comfortable by the fire, tucking himself away in Bucky’s chair. 

The last sketch he’d been working on was of Bucky, and so was the one before that. He took a moment to flip through the pages, each one containing a sharp depiction of a single piece of him: Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s ear, Bucky’s thighs, Bucky’s lips… When he looked up at the walls, he found much of the same. A few of them were based more on a memory—portraits of the two of them together, their body parts now tangled in a gentle embrace. Sometimes he was big, and Bucky had long flowing hair, and other times he was small, and Bucky showed his teeth when he smiled. Steve reveled in tracing the line of his arm with his finger tip and ending up over Bucky’s chest, like solving a maze, or untying a knot. 

The familiar warmth of the fire that helped dry his damp socks seemed to be heating up his face too. He kept his head low and his eyes trained on his paper, only glancing up briefly at the flowers sitting on the mantle, savoring the contrast of the red brick and the purple petals. He was so captured by the colors he hardly noticed the wind picking up as the sun fell below the tree line, or the clumps of snow gathering on the windowsill.

____________

“Steve?” 

Steve’s head shot up at the sound of Bucky’s voice, followed by the sound of the door swinging open and the sharp winds howling outside. He couldn’t help the tight gasp he let out at the sight of him trudging inside. 

“Aw Buck, you’re soaked!” 

He quickly got up from the armchair and rushed to Bucky’s side, haphazardly leaving his wet paints behind him. Bucky was _drowning_ in snow. It had gathered on his shoulders, and his hat, and even on the tips of his boots. He hastily kicked the clumps from his toes and shrugged off his hat—revealing just how greasy his hair had become underneath. Steve couldn’t help but grin, bringing his hands up to cup Bucky’s ruddy cheeks. 

“H-how was your day?” He stuttered. He tried to act to act nonchalant while he shrugged off his coat, but Steve saw right through him. 

“You’re a mess,” Steve said, gently running the pad of his thumb over a sharp cheekbone. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see another one of his sketches posted up right by the door: him and Bucky, with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Suddenly, there it was again, that tickle at the back of Steve’s throat. _Push a little harder, go ahead, ask him…_

“Do you want me to help clean you up?” 

The question sat in the air for a moment, unanswered. Steve’s heart started to pound in his chest but he kept his hands firmly planted on either side of Bucky’s face, anchoring him. The other man twisted a little in his wet socks before speaking.

“Yeah, I’d...I’d like that,” he said, his voice slightly gravely. Steve paid close attention to how his long, dark lashes fluttered, and the way they cast flickering shadows over his face as his gaze shifted. He had to recenter himself before he could reply. 

“Alright then, why don’t you go get changed and I’ll set up by the fire.” Somehow, Steve’s hands got colder when they dropped back down to his sides. 

While Bucky got undressed, Steve boiled some water on the stove to pour in the wash basin. He watched through the pitch black glass as the world outside grew darker and wilder, the snow whipping around violently, rattling their safe little world. In the reflection of the window, Steve could see Bucky’s form appearing in the bedroom doorway, now wearing nothing but his sleep pants, his hair hanging around his face in messy, tangled waves. He didn’t know why it was so hard to tear his gaze away from him like this, but it was. He decided to shrug his shirt off as well. _Just in case it gets wet,_ he thought. 

Steve silently moved towards the crackling fire, setting down what he needed while Bucky stood looming behind him, clearly unsure if he was invited to help. Steve bit his lip, holding back a laugh. His mother always used to call Bucky _such a sweet boy_. He remembered how she used to muss up his hair and kiss his cheeks, and keep him for as long as she could every time he had to go. Steve could understand that feeling now, more than ever. 

“Come, sit down.” He gently called for him and he came, hesitantly seating himself on a cushion that Steve had stolen from the armchair. He’d brought the stool over too, placing the washbasin on top to get it closer to Bucky’s head. “Now lean back.”

Steve reflexively reached across the other man’s chest, gently pressing a hand on his sternum as his neck and back arched towards the water. He left it there for a few seconds after, rubbing tight little circles against his bare skin. 

“Alright, Buck,” he said, picking up an empty cup at his side and dunking it in the warm, lathery water. “Keep your eyes closed if you don’t want any soap in them.” 

Bucky ran his tongue over his upper lip and folded his hands on his stomach as he settled, but he kept his eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling. Steve tried his best to pour the cup out away from his face, placing his empty hand over Bucky’s forehead to shield it from any runoff. 

They sat there together in silence, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the heat of each other’s bodies. Steve paid close attention to the sensation of Bucky’s hair running between his fingers, the way it slipped so gently through his hands underneath the water. _It’s beautiful,_ he thought, tracing a path from his scalp all the way to the slightly frayed ends. **_He’s_ ** _beautiful…_ He wished he had something more than soap to clean him with. 

Once again, the warmth of the fire at his back had somehow migrated to his face. Occasionally, he would glance down at Bucky’s deep blue eyes, which were surprisingly still. This time, the light of the fire cast the shadows of his lashes into even longer, stranger shapes. Steve could have traced those silhouettes forever, just placidly dragging his fingertips along Bucky’s stubbly cheeks. Somehow, even with his hands buried in Bucky’s hair, he itched for his pencils.

Eventually, Steve had to stop mindlessly playing with the other man’s head, and reached for the empty cup to start rinsing the soap. When he turned back towards him, however, he found that his gaze had moved slightly, now focused on the mantle. 

“Did you pick those today?” Bucky asked. His voice was quiet but smooth, no longer rough and gravelly from disuse. Steve looked over his shoulder and found the vase full of flowers, still vibrant and fresh smelling.

He smiled and turned back towards Bucky. “Yeah, there were actually a lot of them out there, for how much snow is still on the ground. I’m lucky I grabbed em’ early, before the storm started.”

“Yeah…” Bucky’s eyes shifted back towards the ceiling. He grew quiet, and Steve proceeded to rinse the soap out. Then, he added:

“ _They’re real pretty, aren’t they?_ ” 

Steve was pleasantly surprised to hear the sound of his voice again. 

“Yeah, they sure are. Before you got home, I was actually working on a painting of them.”

Bucky let out a small chuckle, “‘Course you did, doll. I bet it’s great, too. Will you—will you let me see it?” 

_Doll...He called me doll..._

Steve grinned so hard his eyes began to water. 

“A’ course you can, Buck.” 

Bucky smiled back, but kept his gaze elsewhere as Steve finished rinsing. When he was done, he slipped a hand behind Bucky’s back, pressing between his shoulder blades to guide him up, before reaching for the bath towel. 

“You want me to help you dry off too, pal? Cuz you’re gonna need to pay extra for that.”

Steve managed to get another soft laugh out of him with that one.

“Sure thing…” He replied, trailing off for a moment. He timidly looked over his left shoulder. “Why don’t you c’mere.” He reached behind himself, gently patting the floor beside his lower back. 

Steve sucked in a gasp under his breath, tightly clutching the edges of the raggedy towel. That same warmth came back to his face, and he was starting to admit to himself that it wasn’t coming from the fire. All those fleeting touches—not just in the cabin, but forever, across all of time. Ever since they had come into adolescence, and suddenly the familiar sight of Bucky’s broad shoulders and bright smile had made Steve’s heart pound out of his ribs. Every little brush of fingertips, or firm pat on the back, or gentle hair tousling, it had all added up to this—this place and time where they could just _be, together._

Cautious but thrilled, Steve scooted forward, nestling Bucky’s body between his thighs. He felt a cathartic release of pressure between his bones when he finally reached up and began gently rubbing the towel over Bucky’s head. 

He was so close, he reveled in every detail. Bucky felt so _firm_ , pressed against him like this. For the past few weeks, he’d always slept at Steve’s back, and certainly he’d felt very solid and safe—a wall of protection between him and the world. But this was different. Having his whole body in such a small space, Steve marveled at how _sturdy_ he was, so much more so than he was in the 40s. That Bucky—the boy he knew before the war—was lean and trim, and always standing with his shoulders back, trying to seem taller (even though he stood head and shoulders above Steve, without even trying). Despite being wider, and about 20lbs heavier, this Bucky always tried to shrink himself down, hunching over and tucking his arms close to his chest. _Almost like he’s hiding_ , Steve thought. And he couldn’t really blame him, knowing now how he felt about himself—about the scars that littered his body. Battle scars, _surgical_ scars. The bright orange glint of a flame reflected in his metal arm was enough to tell people who he was. _Enough to warn them not to come closer_.

Steve slowed down his rubbing even more, focusing on individual clumps of strands, working down from root to tip until they were fully dry, and were beginning to frizz.

“You remember your sister, Buck?” Steve's voice cracked when he spoke. This was a dangerous topic of conversation, only supported by what he’d seen in Bucky’s notebook.

Once again, he didn’t respond right away. The gentle hiss of the flames and the cold winter winds filled the air between them, and Steve was content with that. But then, quietly he answered. 

“Yeah...I—I remember her...Her name was Becca, right?” 

Relief flooded over Steve in waves. 

“Yeah, that was her. _Becca_ ,” Steve replied softly. He started on a new strand, near the back of Bucky’s head. “Y’know, I used to do this for your sister all the time, washing her hair and combing it for her. We called it playing barber shop.” 

“Uh huh...” Bucky gently pressed him to continue, and Steve delighted in it. He smiled with his teeth, and you could hear it when he spoke.

“I used to braid it for her too, when I spent the night at your place before school. My ma taught me how. She used to have me do all types of little tasks, like threading her sewing needles for her.” He let out an unbidden laugh. “You used to tell me it was ‘cuz I had such small fingers, like a dame.” 

Bucky laughed too, quietly, but it quickly tapered off into silence. 

“I...I remember that time,” he said. “Your ma, and my ma too. And—and how you’d spend the night at ours, and we’d sleep on the living room floor, on top of the couch cushions. We’d always push em’ together, so we could be closer.” Bucky’s breaths slowed, and Steve let the towel drop down into his lap. “The memories...they flicker in and out...like, like fireflies, trapped behind my eyelids while I’m sleeping.” 

Steve’s own breath caught in the back of his throat, and he bit his lip, his fingertips picking at the now-damp towel resting on his knee. 

“I know that feeling, Buck. I do.” His voice had turned hoarse. 

By then, the water in the basin had gone cold, and the fire was beginning to smolder. 

_Time to push again,_ he thought. 

“Hey,” Steve asked, lifting his voice as best he could. He glanced up at the dainty vase sitting on the mantle. “Can I try something?”

____________

They moved to the bedroom, sitting in much the same position as before. Their bodies made a slight dent in the center of the mattress, and the metal springs of the cot squeaked and rattled every time Steve shifted. Bucky stayed still, hands splayed out at his sides, propping himself up. When he turned to look over his left shoulder and caught their reflections in the mirror, it was quite a sight. 

They sat nestled close to one another. Steve held an old broken comb in one hand, and pinched a bright purple crocus in the other. A pile of the little flowers sat next to him on the bed, along with a rubber band Bucky had given him. His hair was now brushed out; gently waving past his ears, barely grazing his shoulders. Steve had parted it and set about making a french braid. Each time he set a new plait in the back of Bucky’s head, he tucked the clipped stem of a crocus in between the strands. 

Steve smiled at their reflection—at the picture they made. _The Winter Soldier_ , with his long, lean back and striking metal arm, reflecting the light of the bedside lamp in its sheen, being coddled by _Captain America,_ a vision of patriotism, his skin littered with fading pink bruises and imperceptible scars. He imagined what all those historians might think, if they dug through the archives and found this image. _Best friends since childhood...inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield…_ Steve could almost laugh. 

_If only it were that simple,_ he thought. 

His fingers were nearing the ends of Bucky’s hair, at the high point of his back. He reached for the rubber band and looped it around a few times at the end of the braid, to make sure everything was fixed in place. It likely wouldn’t last more than a day, but he at least wanted to have something nice to show for, if only for the night. He checked the flowers, making sure they were all straightened out, and adding a few more here and there—a couple sticking out from the sides, an extra one poking out of the top—just because he could. 

“Alright, Buck, all finished. Why don’t you take a look?” He reached around to Bucky’s face, carefully tucking a loose strand behind his ear. 

He watched Bucky slowly stir before turning his face towards the mirror. His expression seemed blank at first; his lips were slightly parted, and his brows pinched a little as he leaned in to look closer. He brought his left hand up and shifted slightly to the side, daintily tracing his metal fingers over the bumps of the braid as it fell down his back. His eyes seemed to flicker at the sight of the bright purple flowers, easily spotted between the dark-brown strands. 

Suddenly, Steve heard a sound he hadn’t heard in almost a hundred years.

“God, I look ridiculous!” Bucky was full-on _belly laughing_ , his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He brought his free hand back down and grabbed his right shoulder, trying to keep himself steady as his body vibrated with joy. Steve couldn’t help but laugh too. To him, the two of them sounded like church bells. 

Eventually, Bucky grew quiet again. He shifted, placing his hand back on the bed and leaning on his side, finally facing Steve. Once again, Steve tried to read his expression but found it hard to make out. The pink of his cheeks matched his lips, curved into an impossibly small smile. His eyes were softer now, the blue much clearer ( _or maybe that’s just the flowers, bringing out the color…)_. Steve quickly found himself getting lost in them. Unsure of what to say next, he considered saying nothing, but all the dangerous thoughts, perched on the edge of his tongue, were too restless to keep that up for long. 

“What’s wrong, Buck?” He asked, tilting his head.

Bucky’s tongue flicked out over his bottom lip and he laughed, quietly this time, before sucking in a breath to speak.

“ _You_ don’t look ridiculous, Stevie...you—you look beautiful.”

Steve’s heart skipped a beat. 

He sucked in a tight breath, his whole body going rigid—he was _frozen_. Bucky just stared back at him with those warm blue eyes that...that were...well they weren’t anything but _Bucky_. Slowly, two hands—one flesh and one metal—migrated towards Steve’s lap. Their fingers touched, as they had so many nights before this, not just lying on this cot in the mountains, but in a tent in Northern Italy, or on a hazy summer night in a Brooklyn apartment, between the folds of two couch cushions, when their hands were so much smaller.

Steve’s eyes had gone cloudy, lost in his own memory, and he hadn’t noticed Bucky reaching one hand up behind his head, plucking a lone crocus from the top of his braid. 

“Here,” he said, his voice so impossibly gentle. He took the flower and carefully tucked it behind Steve’s ear, pushing some loose blonde strands out of the way as he went. “Now you look stupid too.” 

Steve felt the warmth of Bucky’s laugh flood into him and fill him up, all the way to the tips of his ears. He took a quick look at himself in the mirror, and found that he recognized the striking mix of red and purple. When he turned his gaze back towards Bucky, his bright smile was still there, but his eyes had fallen a little. The air between them had grown thicker—and the pull between them stronger.

“What do you want, Buck,” Steve asked, but it wasn’t really a question. He felt Bucky flinch and start to pull one of his hands back, but he held on, insistent. “It’s..it’s ok, you—you can tell me.”

Bucky bit his lip, and briefly glanced down at his lap. “What I want is…I want to take care of you.” When he turned his attention back to Steve, his whole face was _open_ —completely raw, and so _loving._ Steve didn’t know what to do with himself, so he decided to push.

He squeezed Bucky’s fingertips, meeting his gaze from beneath dark lashes. “Then take care of me.” He said, knee-jerk. 

Steve couldn’t say he was ready for Bucky to lean forward and kiss him; for their thighs to barely touch, or for the flimsy cot to creak and groan under the weight of them. The way Bucky’s lips felt on his—slightly dry but still soft, a little cautious, but also curious, incredibly warm, _long_ overdue. He’d spent 85 years aimlessly climbing up a mountain so high that he couldn’t even see the summit, and suddenly he’d found himself at its peak. 

_Bucky…_

When he tried to pull away, to give Steve space, Steve just pulled him right back, his hands instinctively jumping up from his lap to cup Bucky’s cheeks. 

_You’re not going anywhere…not now…_

“S— _Steve_ —” Hearing Bucky stutter out his name like that felt _euphoric_. Their kisses grew deeper, and they soon started to migrate. Steve turned to look over his left shoulder, and found their reflections staring back at him in the mirror. He watched intently as Bucky trailed kisses across his cheeks, past the lobe of his ear, then down his throat. He could see the way his own eyelids fluttered closed when he shivered, and how Bucky responded by digging deeper, leaving little red marks behind as he moved further down Steve’s neck. He felt so _exposed_ , and it was wonderful. 

_Now that I have you…_

“ _Baby_ …” Bucky’s voice was low and gruff, and made Steve whimper when he spoke. “Tell me...if it’s ok…” 

“ _Yes!_ ” Steve whined as he tangled his fingers in Bucky’s hair, happily messing up his own work so soon. “ _Please_ don’t stop.”

Bucky surged forward, locking their legs together like puzzle pieces. Steve could feel how hard Bucky was, desperately rutting against Steve’s thigh, and became starkly aware of his own hardness, straining against his sweatpants. It was _intoxicating_ feeling him like that for the first time—so _close_ , after so many years apart. 

_After all this time._

Steve’s hands moved freely down Bucky’s back, hopelessly clinging to him. He was telling him, in no uncertain terms, _Don’t let go of me._ Bucky was clearly receptive to Steve’s message. He pushed Steve down onto the bed, pressing their bare chests together, as close as they could go, before he moved back up to Steve’s mouth. His rubbing became more frantic—more _crude—_ and Steve revelled in the hot touch of skin on skin, of the sheer _weight_ of him, pinning him down to the mattress. 

Steve let himself whine and moan, as loud as he wanted. There were no more cloth tent flaps or thin tenement walls holding them back. He could enjoy every obscene grunt, or creak of the bed frame hitting the wall. He could savor the way Bucky would gasp and then fall into muttered whispers, saying his name over and over again like it was a prayer— _stevestevestevestevesteve…_

He awoke the next morning to the feeling of warm skin against soft fabric. He didn’t remember falling asleep tangled in Bucky’s arms, or that they had never taken their pants off during the night. They’d woken up together before, many times over the years, but not like this—not with their flesh marked, screaming bright red scratches and bites. They had _chosen_ each other, made themselves into one entity: steveandbucky. Their bodies had melted into a single, beautiful piece. And Steve _knew,_ laying there in silence, gazing out into the endless wilderness, that they could never be torn apart again—not even by the hand of God. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fuck that was 98 years in the making 😂Also, the fact that I keep using the church bells simile...somebody come get me I s2g... Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter cuz I sure did! See you all tomorrow for something a little spicy 😏Also, once again, sorry about the punctuation issues. I try to catch as many of them as I can but this chapter was a long one.
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finally gets taken care of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredible art in this chapter was done by the lovely alby_mangroves. Please check out their original post and follow their stuff! They're amazing! ~ https://archiveofourown.org/works/28127139
> 
> Warning: This chapter is where things go from M to E, so if you're not interested in that, you can go to the time skip towards the end and you shouldn't miss anything important plot-wise. Otherwise, enjoy!

**Time: 1500 Hours**

**Location: Somewhere in Northeastern Canada**

**Temperature: 41 degrees Fahrenheit**

**33 Days Since Steve Rogers’ Disappearance**

_“In other news…” *chrrrk* “Major storm incoming—” *chrk*_

_“Temperatures expected to drop…” *chrrrrrrrrrrrk*_

The ice was starting to melt. The snow covered ground slowly gave way to vast green hills stretching out towards the edge of the forest, covered in splotches of mud, agitated by streams of melting water that rushed through every little crevice and channel they could find. The sun was high, its warm rays cast down over the fields, reaching through the kitchen window to the edges of Steve’s bare feet. The whole world felt warmer. 

They’d been waking up with each other for a while now. Steve would roll over and see Bucky sleeping peacefully, his face relaxed. He looked so handsome—so _young_ —Steve didn’t want to disturb him. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly restless, he’d run a finger along Bucky’s chin, dragging it up his jawline. Bucky always woke up with his smile first, instead of his eyes. 

After fixing Bucky’s breakfast and sending him into town for supplies, Steve had settled down in the armchair with his sketchbook in hand. The radio was on in the corner of the kitchen, playing what vaguely sounded like music intercut with occasional fuzzy voices. He liked having it on while Bucky was away, liked how the white noise gently filled the space that he’d left behind.

He had dragged the armchair and old wooden stool closer to the center of the room, facing the kitchen window; he wanted a good vantage point for sketching the mountain’s peak, far off in the distance. Now that much of the snow had disappeared, the green grass of the meadow contrasted beautifully with the dark blue cliffs, and Steve itched to capture that beauty. He set his watercolors down on the stool along with a mug and an old dirty rag for cleaning his brushes. 

Time seemed to melt away as he sat there sketching the scenery, following the smooth, delicate curves of the hills with his pencil tip. Eventually, he dipped into his paints and tried his best to replicate the vibrant spring colors of the mountains and the flowering fields. All the while, the radio buzzed on in the background, keeping him company. 

The next time he looked up from his paper, the sun had moved to the front of the house, casting a crisp beam of light over the armchair and onto his face. That’s when Bucky opened the door.

“Hey, Stevie. I missed you today.”

Steve’s breath hitched at the sight of him; an armful of shopping bags and a huge goofy smile on his face, with his hair pulled back and the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to his elbows. Steve carefully observed the way his forearm muscles tensed up while he walked into the kitchen, and how a line of sweat ran down the back of his neck, then fell beneath his shirt collar. Bucky kept on talking as he started putting the food away, but Steve wasn’t listening.

He was about to do something reckless. 

“Hey Bucky, can I draw you naked?” 

Bucky stopped moving, holding a can of beans mid-air when he froze. After a second, he placed them down on the shelf, but he didn’t say anything.

 _Oh, shit—_

Steve instantly sat up straight in the chair, fumbling with his notebook and nearly dropping it on the floor. _Shit shit shit!_ Kissing was one thing—whatever boyish, lovestruck _nonsense_ they’d gotten up to the other night, that was another. But the sheer, raw intimacy of not just _seeing_ someone nude, but _drawing_ them? Steve suddenly found himself inside his frail, 16-year old body again, nervously sweating because Bucky had looked at him funny, or left his hand on Steve’s shoulder just a second too long. In an instant, all of the confidence he’d built up had withered away, and that shy, pining boy still living inside of him began to fear he was pushing too far too fast. He had to say something, he had to take it back, he—

“Sure, sweetheart. Where do you want me?”

Steve looked up and saw Bucky smirking at him from across the room, arms folded over his chest. He watched, speechless, as Bucky reached up to his collar and began to daintily unbutton his flannel, all the while keeping eye contact with Steve. When he finally reached the bottom, he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground behind him. 

Steve was so out of it he nearly forgot Bucky had asked him a question. 

“Oh! Uh, yes—um…” His hands were shaking. He could hear the other man chuckle under his breath, could feel his eyes on him, his smile. He looked down for a second to regain his balance, and— _The chair!_ He abruptly stood, his pencil falling from his lap and rolling across the floor. “Will you sit right here?” He patted the back of the chair with his left hand.

Bucky stood there for a moment, hip jutted out, looking at the armchair with that same stupid smirk on his face. He nodded, then sauntered over and took his seat where Steve had just been sitting, legs casually spread apart. 

“You want the pants off too, _Picasso_?” 

Steve instinctively scoffed at the familiar jab, “Picasso isn’t really famous for drawing realistic, Buck—” His breath caught in his throat when he realized Bucky had unzipped his fly and was sliding his worn-out jeans down to his ankles, peeling his socks off when his belt hit the floor with a _clunk._

He gulped, suddenly at a loss for words. _This is really happening,_ he thought. His palms began to sweat. Nervously, he reached forward and tugged the stool over to where he was standing, just a few feet away from where Bucky was nonchalantly shimmying out of his briefs. He sat back on the creaky wooden stool a little too quickly, almost missing it entirely and having to swing his arm back to catch himself. He heard another faint chuckle coming from Bucky’s direction. 

“Still clumsy as ever, huh, kid?” 

Bucky’s voice activated something deep inside of Steve, and that same familiar warmth began to pool inside his belly again. _Maybe I’m the one being pushed,_ he thought. 

Steve bit his lip, resisting the urge to fire back at him. Instead, he focused on rearranging his paints and his pencils, keeping his eyes off of Bucky’s body for as long as possible. While he continued to fiddle with his supplies, Bucky tentatively cleared his throat.

“So, you uh...want me to pose or somethin’?” 

Steve flinched at the question. “Sure, Buck,” He replied nonchalantly, trying his best to play cool instead of coy. “Do whatever you want.”

Steve could sense him shrugging in response, and heard a little bit of creaky movement coming from the armchair. When he finally looked up, a tiny gasp escaped his throat.

The way Bucky had posed himself, it was well... _exquisite_. He had set his body somewhat sideways in the chair, facing the window above the dining table, sprawled out so his form was in full view. His left leg was hitched up onto the arm of the chair, bent at the knee, while his right leg was slung completely over it, hanging casually over the side, gently swinging. His foot barely grazed the floor beneath him. In some type of beautiful, accidental asymmetry, Bucky’s left arm was straight, the metal resting flush with the top of the chair’s back. Meanwhile, his right arm was bent, his elbow resting on the opposite armrest, his hand in a loose fist propping up his right cheek. 

Steve followed the knuckles of his fingers as they pressed soft divots into his skin, leading up to his long, dark lashes, and the shadows they cast over his eyes. His gaze had turned from a bright afternoon sky to a deep, stormy blue, and all of that inescapable depth was focused right at Steve, like a black hole sucking him in. 

Bucky raised a brow at him, and his lips twitched into a smirk. 

“This good enough for ya?”

Steve coughed, his eyes instinctively flicking down towards the sketchbook in his lap. 

“Uh, yeah Buck that’s great.” His face felt incredibly warm, like he was sitting directly in front of a roaring bonfire. 

“What if I did this?” 

Steve looked up, only to find that Bucky’s smirk had turned into an all-out mischievous grin. He reached down and plucked his book up off the floor, turning it to a random page and pretending to read. 

Now Steve was the one smiling. 

He quickly set to work. His pencil glided across the page with ease, effortlessly following the gentle slopes and curves of Bucky’s body, as though Steve’s memory of him was stored inside his fingertips. At some point, Bucky seemed to relax further into the chair, and into his book. He pinched the spine in his left hand, tucking the right one behind his head. His eyes were soft, and his cheeks flushed a delicate pink. Steve turned to a new page in his sketchbook.

He wasn’t exactly sure how long he’d been drawing for when Bucky suddenly shifted, groaning as a quiet “pop” came out of his shoulder. 

“ _Steeeeevie_ …” 

The sound of the other man’s voice snapped Steve out of his reverie, bringing his eyes back up to his face. He was somehow pouting and smirking at the same time, his eyelids low, his shoulders now relaxed. Steve watched him intently as he moved his right hand down his stomach and over his—

“Mmm...can’t sit still much longer…” Bucky moaned, rubbing an open palm over himself. 

Steve swallowed. _Hard._ “How come, Buck?”

“Mmmm…” He continued, _very_ smugly. “S’not fair. I’m sittin’ here in my birthday suit and you don’t even have the decency to strip down to your skivvies for me, doll.” Steve watched as he let the book’s spine slip from his left hand and clatter onto the floor. He leaned over slowly and readjusted his legs, resting his forearms on his large thighs and folding his hands in his lap. His piercing eyes met Steve’s as he bit his lip. 

It took Steve a moment to realize his mouth was gaping open like a fish.

Bucky snickered at him, leaning in just a little closer. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you lookin’, babydoll.” Suddenly he leaned back, throwing his flesh arm up behind his head and settling it on the tall back of the armchair as he twisted in the seat. 

“Mmm…” He groaned. “‘Cock’s too hard to sit still.”

He was right. Bucky’s cock _was_ hard—and _thick,_ and bright red, pressed up against the firm lines of his stomach.

Steve couldn’t speak, his tongue sat dead in his mouth like a paperweight. 

“I—” Steve’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of Bucky—his pupils, fully dilated and focused right on him. _He’s got me in his sights,_ he thought. He licked his lips and forced himself to look down at his own quivering knees. When he spoke again, his voice was low, but clear. 

“I could... _help you_ with that.” He said, barely a whisper.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room had changed. The fire was warm, but the air was crisp and clean on their bare skin. Steve felt a cold chill run up his spine. When a thousand years had passed, and he finally glanced back up, he found Bucky, _hungering._ His lips were barely parted, and he could make out just a glimpse of white teeth hidden behind plush pink flesh. 

Bucky swallowed. “Yeah, Rogers?” He asked. He let out a huff, his shoulders rolling as the air left his chest. 

Steve nodded, involuntarily and with enthusiasm, shifting his weight a little on the stool before slowly lowering himself down onto his knees. 

Bucky smirked, his left arm letting out a mechanical whir as it flexed against the armrest. “Well, c’mere then, sweetheart.” He gently patted his left knee—an invitation. “And take some of those layers off on your way, won’t you? I wanna... _g_ _et a good look at you._ ” 

Steve’s breath caught in his throat as he nervously ran his fingertips over the hem of his t-shirt. Unlike Bucky, he shed his clothes quickly and clumsily, struggling to shrug off his sweatpants while still kneeling on the floor. He heard Bucky laugh as he haphazardly kicked a pants-leg off his foot and nearly fell face-first into the hardwood. 

“C’mere, doll,” He chuckled, gesturing towards himself again. “Lemme see you.” 

Steve crawled across the last few feet of floor between him and Bucky. He sat on his thighs, his own cock hardening between his legs. Bucky reached down and carefully cupped Steve’s face in his hands. 

“ _God_ , you’re beautiful,” He whispered, just barely brushing a metal fingertip over Steve’s lip. Steve’s body was starting to buzz, but he stayed patient and still, letting Bucky take control. “Wish I could draw you half as good as you draw me.” 

He let out a breath, and Bucky took advantage of his open mouth. He felt a finger slide between his teeth and onto his tongue. Without even thinking, his lips closed around it and he began to suck. 

“ _Fuck_ —” Bucky’s whole body seemed to tighten. Steve responded by taking the digit even further down his throat. His eyelids fluttered closed and he focused on exploring with his tongue, enjoying the taste of salt on Bucky’s skin. 

“ _Fuck,_ Stevie, _please—”_ Suddenly, Bucky’s left hand was on Steve’s head. The metal appendage began to whir and hum again as he threaded his fingers through Steve’s hair, tugging just hard enough to lift his chin. “ _Sweetheart,_ ” he panted. “Babydoll, can you…” He glanced down briefly at his lap— _a suggestion_. His eyes were glassy and dark. 

Steve gulped. The sight of Bucky’s thick, red cock so close made his _mouth water._ His gaze followed the throbbing vein running up his length until he reached the head, just as a shining bead of precum gathered at the tip. He unconsciously let out a groan, grinding his hips down into the floor—he was _aching_ to be touched.

Bucky lifted a single brow at the sight of Steve’s blissed-out face. “You want my cock in your pretty little mouth, sweetheart?”

Steve gasped, his own cock fluttering at the sound of Bucky’s voice, so _confident_ and brazen. He wondered if this is how he used to talk to pretty dames back in the day, when they’d step away from the dance floor and quietly slip into another room. _No wonder he got so many phone numbers_ , he thought. 

Steve nodded his head, quick but timid, then leaned forward, bracing his hands on Bucky’s knees. His breaths were hot and even, and he could hear his blood pumping behind his ears. As he slowly brought his face towards Bucky’s groin, his heart began to _quiver_ between his ribs, like a bird trapped inside a cage. 

Somehow, Bucky’s voice was steady. “That’s it doll,” he told him. Steve let the gentle press of Bucky’s hands on the back of his head guide him, anchoring his mind to shore. “Nice and slow.” Steve had never done this before—he’d never even tried anything _close_ to this. All he’d had before this were his dreams, as cryptic and fevered as they were. Nothing could have prepared him for the abject _bliss_ he felt taking Bucky into his mouth for the first time.

He started off slow, relaxing his jaw as he carefully sucked the head between his lips. He tasted salty precum on his tongue, and felt the sticky liquid as it dripped down his throat. Then he took a moment to get comfortable, trying his best to keep his teeth pushed back. He glanced up at Bucky before moving further, looking for reassurance. 

“You’re doin’ great, doll.” His eyes were soft, just like the tug of his hands in Steve’s hair. Steve could tell he was holding himself back. He pictured Bucky forcefully pressing his face forward, shoving his length all the way down his throat. It made him shiver.

“That’s it, baby, keep goin— _ugh,_ oh god...” Bucky groaned and threw his head back, hitting the back of the armchair with a soft thud as Steve slowly dragged the rest of his cock into his mouth. He let it sit there for a moment, enjoying the pleasant weight of it on his tongue. When he resumed his gentle kitten licks, Bucky’s fingers tightened in his hair, and his eyes started to water.

“ _Fuck,_ Stevie, you’re so good for me, doll...so good.” Bucky’s lips seemed to loosen the longer they went at it. Steve responded by tentatively drawing his chin up until his hot mouth was wrapped around the head again. Bucky’s steady hands soon followed, gently nudging him back down. 

“Mmm...‘Love when you’re a good boy for me, baby…You’re a real good listener, Stevie. Y’know that?” Bucky’s voice was becoming wilder and raspier by the second. “Gettin’ on your knees for me...soon as I come home. So _obedient—”_

That _word—_ something about it stopped Steve right in his tracks, so fast he nearly choked, a line of spit running down his chin. _Obedient_. He rolled it around in his brain for a moment. His jaw loosened, and his ministrations became more lazy and relaxed. All of a sudden, he was back in their kitchen in Brooklyn, wearing nothing but his ma’s apron and a saucy grin on his face. Something about it made Steve’s stomach feel full in just the right way. He hummed around Bucky’s cock in his mouth, closing his eyes and leaning forward even further, subconsciously trying and failing to rub up against the chair. Suddenly, he felt a sharp yank on his head, and his lips came off of Bucky with a tight _pop!_

“ _Stevie_ ,” Bucky chided him. Steve could immediately detect the mischievous tone that had crept into his voice. “What did I just say about _obedience_ , doll?” He untangled his right hand from Steve’s hair and swatted lightly at his chest. “No _touchin’_ yourself without permission, understand?” And then the rogue hand was put back in its place— _and so was Steve._ He let Bucky guide his open mouth back towards his cock, glistening with Steve’s spit. Now that he was familiar with the motions, he could relax his throat more, letting more of Bucky in with every pass of his mouth up and down his length. The longer he worked, the quieter Bucky got, descending into tight little grunts that escalated whenever Steve glanced up at him through his lashes. Then, the head of Bucky’s cock hit the back of Steve’s throat and he _gagged_ , another line of slick drool falling from his lips. 

Bucky’s grip tightened, and Steve felt that thick vein throbbing as he ran his tongue across it. “ _Fuck_ —baby that’s _it_ , I’m so _close, fuck…_ ”

Bucky’s knees started to lift under Steve’s palms. His eyes flicked down at his own lap and he found his cock dripping wet and bouncing between his legs as he moved. _Ohfuckohfuckohfuck—_ Bucky readjusted his grip on Steve’s hair and held his head still, snapping his hips up into his throat.

_Oh god, he’s fucking my mouth!_

The muscles below Steve’s stomach abruptly tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut, letting Bucky fuck into his throat as a violent shudder wracked his entire body. His cock pulsed hot, sticky cum onto his stomach, coating his already sweat-drenched abs. The euphoria of coming without touching himself caused his throat to tighten again, just barely catching the tip of Bucky’s head as he thrusted in and out.

“Oh god, _Steve—_ ” Bucky must’ve caught sight of him, red-faced and positively _drunk_ with lust, his own cum dripping down his abdomen. “Stevie, I’m gonna— _fuck!_ ” 

Bucky tried to jerk Steve’s head back in time to take himself out of Steve’s mouth, but Steve was having none of it. He swiftly brought a hand up from Bucky’s knee and wrapped it around the small of his back, pressing his face into his groin and taking the full length of him down his throat as he came. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” 

Steve _revelled_ in the sensation of Bucky’s cock pulsing in his mouth, enjoying the wet suction of his cheeks sucking him in deeper as hot ropes of his cum ran down Steve’s throat. He took a moment to savor it, devoting the warm, salty taste of his skin to memory. When he finally pulled his lips off the head with another obscene _pop_ , he realized how much _drool_ was on his chin and brought a hand up to wipe his face clean.

Bucky was speechless, sitting above him laboring through every breath. He brought his own hands up to wipe his brow, finally detangling his fingers from Steve’s dampened hair. Steve took the opportunity to relax his shoulders, leaning back and propping himself up on his hands.

Suddenly, the room was filled with the sound of Bucky’s bright laughter.

“Oh god, _Stevie_.” He threw his head back again, this time smiling with his teeth. “We both look a mess, don’t we?”

Steve felt the giggles start to bubble out of him too, and he brought a hand to his chest. “We sure do, Buck...We sure do.” He shook his head. “What do you think the papers would have to say about this?”

Bucky smirked. He rested his forearms on his thighs and leaned down closer to Steve, meeting him eye to eye. “I dunno…’prolly somethin’ about how that super serum a’ yours impacts your stamina.” He loosely gestured to Steve’s lap, and Steve gasped. 

“ _What?_ How did I—” He had somehow gotten rock hard _again_ , his cock still dripping as it bumped up against his belly. 

Bucky hummed, that smug grin still plastered to his face. “If you need help with that, doll, I’m happy to oblige.” Steve could feel his cheeks turning pink as Bucky stood from the chair, deftly maneuvering around him until he was standing directly behind him with his arms crossed. “You wanna take a shower with me, Stevie? Get yourself cleaned up?” 

He turned and looked over his shoulder, meeting Bucky’s eyes and finding that glint of mischief still present. _Two can play at this game,_ he thought.

Steve bit his lip and winked. “Only if you help me get there, Sarge.” 

Bucky’s grin broke out into another toothy smile and he nodded. “Alright, _Captain_ ,” he replied as he bent down. “Whatever you say.”

Steve let out an honest-to-God _yelp_ when Bucky wrapped his hands around his waist and scooped him up right off the floor— _like he weighed nothing at all_. He carefully managed to maneuver all 200 pounds of him into his arms, bracing his hands beneath Steve’s thighs. All Steve could do was fold his arms and legs around him and hold on for dear life as Bucky effortlessly carried him across the threshold into the bathroom.

____________

_“New York City, 1998 A.D., was a paradise for the sightseer more than ever in its history.”_

Steve could hear the smirk in Bucky’s voice as he read aloud, bouncing his inflection up and down emphatically. It was that same radio presenter voice he’d put on for Steve back in Brooklyn, when they were kids. When the world was white with fresh snow, and word came from the schoolhouse that they were off for the day; they’d build a fort out of the couch cushions and climb inside, laying shoulder to shoulder on their stomachs. Sometimes, Bucky would read him an old dusty novel or a comic book, but other times, he’d let his imagination run amok—telling Steve daring exploits of sailors on the moon, encountering little green men. Those were always Steve’s favorite; a private adventure, just for them.

By the time they had finished their... _shower_ , the sun had already set below the trees. The air in the bathroom had become hot and thick with steam, and when they’d opened the door into the living room, Steve’s nipples immediately pricked up at the cold. They were both still damp and covered with bites and scratches. Steve’s body was buzzing from the memory of wrapping his legs tight around Bucky’s waist, when he’d effortlessly lifted him up and pinned him to the slick shower walls—slipping inside of him after so many _grueling_ minutes of being gently worked open by metal fingers. He’d never felt so _full_ before, so _taken care of_. And frankly, he hadn’t felt that _small_ or _dainty_ since before the serum. It was serene. 

Now, they were cuddled up beneath the many blankets they’d stacked onto the bed, in preparation for the incoming storm. Bucky was behind him, propped up on an elbow with his right leg thrown over Steve’s thigh. Steve pressed himself as close to Bucky’s chest as he physically could, bathing in the warmth radiating off his skin. Occasionally, a calloused hand would reach down and tangle its digits in Steve’s wet hair. He moaned at the touch, closing his eyes and leaning into it, letting Bucky’s deep, rumbling voice wash over him in waves. 

When he suddenly paused, Steve glanced up at him. 

“Hey, Steve?” Bucky asked. He wasn’t making eye contact, instead looking over at the bookshelf, and the mirror, and the many scattered pictures on the wall. His gaze seemed to settle on an old wartime propaganda drawing of Steve, covered in stars and stripes. “What you said earlier...about the papers. It got me thinking.”

Steve’s shoulders tensed up.

Bucky’s voice got quieter. “Would you ever…do you…wanna go back to that? To being Cap?” He loosely gestured at the image with the book dangling from his hand. Next to the print of the enlistment poster was another photo taken from Bucky’s journal—the one of him on the fire escape, small and frail, with knobby knees and a sketchbook balanced on his lap. Steve’s eyes traced careful lines back and forth between the two images, then dragged up to his own sharp reflection, staring back at him in the mirror. His brow pinched in the middle and his lips went taught. Bucky remained silent, patiently waiting for him to answer.

Eventually, Steve shrugged and let out a sigh. “I don’t know,” he said. His voice was wistful, slipping out from between his teeth like the sharp gusts of snowy wind rattling against the windows. “I mean, I liked it. It’s a fine job, y’know? Helping people, I just…I don’t know if I can do it anymore, Buck. At least, not like I used to.” His own honesty shook him, deep inside of his chest. He could feel his heart, beating hard and steady against his ribs like a metronome. 

He flinched and sucked in a breath, turning over his shoulder to look Bucky straight in the eyes. “Does that make me a coward?” He asked. His voice trembled as he spoke.

Bucky paused briefly. He sighed, then bit his lip, squaring his own shoulders and bringing the warm wall of his chest closer to Steve’s skin. Steve caught him glancing back up at the drawings on the wall one last time before he looked back down again, meeting Steve’s gaze. 

“I think...I think that makes you human,” He answered, his voice steadier than it had ever been before. Steve gulped, then pressed himself in closer, hiding his wet eyes in the crook of Bucky’s neck while he softly read him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much to alby_mangroves for coming in clutch at the last minute with such amazing art! I was so lucky to get to work with them on this bang. Check out their socials! 
> 
> Twitter: https://twitter.com/_artgroves_  
> Tumblr: https://artgroves.tumblr.com/


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disturbing revelations come to light.

_Mission Report: December 16th, 1991_

**Time: Approximately 0300 Hours**

**Location: Avengers Facility, [Undisclosed Location] New York**

**34 Days Since Steve Rogers’ Disappearance**

_“Did you know about this?_ ”

Sam could instantly hear it in Tony’s voice, clear as day. The man sounded like a piece of glass—vibrating wildly, on the verge of shattering. 

He turned around slowly, gently spinning in his desk chair before smoothly standing, light on his feet. It was coming up on three in the morning, and Tony was looming in his bedroom doorway, a wad of loose papers crumpled in his hand. 

“ _Tell me_ , Wilson, did you _know._ ” It wasn’t a question anymore. Tony briskly stepped forward, his right fist tightening before he slammed the messy stack of documents onto the end of Sam’s bed. They fell like leaves scattered under a tree by a strong wind, a tangled forest of black-on-white text and even thicker black bars—[REDACTED] [CLASSIFIED] [TOP SECRET]. Sam was familiar with the general language of government secrets, but he could immediately tell that this stuff was _way_ above his pay grade. He cautiously braced one hand on the back of his office chair. He didn’t like the look in Tony’s eyes. 

“Listen, man,” He slowly raised his other hand up in a truce. “I’ve never seen those documents before, and I honestly have _no_ idea what you’re talking about—” 

Tony let out what could only be described as a _squall_ ; all of the shouting and tears he’d held back getting caught in his throat and finally bubbling up all at once, in some sort of horrifically desperate laugh. 

“He _killed_ them, Sam! He fucking _murdered_ them!” 

The words rang in Sam’s ears like dynamite going off in his face.

Just as his heart rate was starting to pick up, Nat’s face appeared in the doorway behind Tony. The second Sam saw her, he was sure Tony was about to collapse onto the floor, his body clearly overflowing with sleep-deprived rage. Instead, Tony swung himself around and started giving her the same treatment. 

“ _You!_ ” He spit the words at her like venom. “ _You_ fucking _knew_ , didn’t you! And so did Rogers, that _bastard_!” Tony stalked over to her and pressed a pointed finger to her chest.

“We didn’t know it was him, Tony.” Nat’s voice was remarkably calm, even for her, but Sam could see her shifting her weight on her feet—she was just as unsteady.

Tony didn’t miss a beat. “And who is this _we,_ huh? You’re telling me these SHIELD documents just materialized out of thin fucking air this afternoon? Tell me the truth, Romanoff! Did. Rogers. _Know_.” 

Nat was silent. She peered over Tony’s shoulder and Sam met her steely gaze. All Sam had known up to that point, up until Tony had marched into his room and dropped a bomb on his bed, was what Steve had told him—that Bucky was his _person_. Sam knew full well what it felt like to lose someone that close, to have your body torn in half and have to wake up the next day and keep moving. And so did Tony.

He took a step forward, bracing himself. “You would do anything for Pepper, right?” He asked, trying his best to keep his voice steady. At the mention of Pepper’s name, Tony _immediately_ did a full 180, staring him down with scowl fixed to his face. Sam put his hands back up, this time as a shield. “Even when she fell off the oil rig, and she had Extremis inside her. You knew she might not be the same after that but you still would have done anything—”

“Pepper’s not a fucking _murderer_ , Sam!” 

“ _Everyone calm down!_ ” Nat’s voice rang out like a bell. Without them even noticing, she had physically put herself between the two of them, her open palms hovering over their chests. 

Tony abruptly reached up and snatched Nat’s hand into his own, shoving it back down to her side before letting go. He took a moment, shifting his gaze towards her, letting her know _exactly_ how he felt without saying a word. Then he turned on his heel and stormed back into the hall without another word. 

Sam reflexively started to walk towards the door, wanting to chase after him, hoping that he would just _listen_ , for once in his goddamn life. 

Nat finally placed her hand fully on his chest. She sighed. “Let him go, Sam.” They both peered out into the empty hallway, not sure what they were looking for. Nat rubbed a few circles over Sam’s heart before she let go, her warmth spreading through him. “I’ll...I’ll show him some things. I’ll help him understand, ok? It’s late. Go get some sleep.” 

Sam watched her head towards the door then hesitate, her hand hovering over the knob. She shut it gently on her way out, meeting his gaze one last time as she went. 

____________

Natasha sat at the foot of her bed, one foot tucked under her thigh, gently cradling a manila folder in her lap. She knew she had to get up, go find Tony, try to persuade him—persuade him of _what_ ? She wasn’t really sure, but she knew she had to protect Steve. _I owe him one_. She caught herself busying her fingers, creasing the corner of one of the photographs. Steve and Bucky smiled at her, across a hundred years. 

Nat forced herself to close the folder and stand up. She stood there for a moment, staring down at her black socks. Her restless hand had migrated from the edge of the paper to the arrow hanging around her neck. She let the feeling of the cold metal sink into her fingertips, grounding her. Then, she turned on her heels and set off down the hall towards Tony’s wing of the compound, keeping her footsteps quiet and swift. 

As she walked, she kept her eyes on the tips of her toes. She didn’t have to think of what she was going to say to Tony, she just _knew_ It was a feeling: all of her love for Steve and Sam, for Tony and Clint and Bruce and Wanda. Hell, even that goddamn robot. It was all bubbling over all at once and she hoped it was big enough to cover everyone, to reach into the farthest, blackest corners of their hearts and stitch her family back together.

When she reached the end of the hallway, she stopped and looked up, only to find Tony’s bedroom door wide open. 

This was wrong. This was _very wrong_. Nat didn’t hesitate, stepping inside and scanning the room, only to find it completely deserted. Loose SHIELD documents littered the floor, and Tony’s hideous red bathrobe and slippers were slung haphazardly across the back of his swivel chair and tossed beneath his desk. 

She had to check the lab. She hastily slipped her socks off her feet and threw them somewhere into the hall before breaking into an all-out sprint. _Tony, please..._ The folder tucked under her arm felt like it was gonna catch fire and burn straight through her. 

As she neared the doors to Tony’s laboratory, she could hear a steady beeping noise coming from inside. “ _Tony_!” Her voice was raw and she was out of breath, but she also had an idea of what she was hearing, and it wasn’t good. “Tony, _please_ , listen to me! Tony—” 

Natasha burst through the lab doors and skidded to a stop. 

_Beep...beep...beep._

It was abandoned, just like his bedroom, but all of the monitors were still active. Her heart was pounding as she approached the computer console producing the noise. The unit itself was filthy, littered with empty snack bags and...even emptier liquor bottles. The computer’s display showed a map of North America. He had locked on to a set of coordinates in northeastern Canada, somewhere at the very top of the border between Quebec and Newfoundland. In another window, hidden behind the map, was a video.

It was just some grainy security footage from a mom and pop convenience store, probably the only camera they had in the whole building. The subject was grainy too, and hid himself well, hunched over with his hands shoved in his pockets. He had long brown hair, unkempt but seemingly clean. He was wearing all dark browns and blacks, including a scarf and beanie which obscured him even more, but that face—those _eyes_ : it was unmistakably Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., where’s Tony?” Nat couldn’t hear the beeping anymore, couldn’t hear anything but the sound of her own heartbeat, her own breath, as she ran back to Sam’s room as fast as her feet could carry her.

“I’m afraid he left the compound already, Agent Romanoff.”

“What time did the Quinjet leave the hangar?”

“He exited the security perimeter at approximately 0330 hours, but all the Quinjets are currently on site.”

 _Shit, he must have taken the suit._ “Can you contact him?” 

“He seems to have turned off his comms, or he’s gone out of range. I’m detecting extreme weather conditions in the direction he left the facility.”

Suddenly, Sam’s door was about to smack her in the face.

“ _Sam!”_ At this point, her voice was completely cracked and broken, her palm coated in sweat as she curled it into a fist. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d pounded on a door that hard. “Sam, wake up! It’s Tony! _He found them!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is such a short one, but things are really starting to heat up! See you again tomorrow morning for Chapter 10!
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation

_He was not no machine!_

_He was a person just like you and me_

_and he was my friend._

**Time: Approximately 0445 Hours**

**Location: Somewhere in Northeastern Canada**

**Temperature: 22 degrees Fahrenheit**

**34 Days Since Steve Rogers’ Disappearance**

Steve woke up with a jolt. Bucky still had his arms wrapped around him, but his grip had turned relentless, the fiercely cold metal of his left hand digging into the flesh of his arm. Something was _very_ wrong. 

“Bucky?” His voice was still hoarse from sleep. Steve looked over his shoulder to find the other man sitting up in bed, fully awake and alert. 

“I thought I heard something.”

Steve groaned as he wiggled out of Bucky’s arms, propping himself up on his shoulders. The outside world was still dark, but the sharp winds whipped up tangles of snow into the air, creating thick, opaque white lines crisscrossing the black wilderness. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on hearing whatever Bucky had heard, but with the memory of that night all those weeks ago still flickering behind his eyelids, and the thought soon crossed his mind— _Maybe I can’t._

“Buck, please,” He said, gently pleading. “Go back to sleep.” He put a hand on Bucky’s right shoulder, feeling his muscles flex beneath the pads of his fingers. 

“No…” It wasn’t a response to Steve at all, more of a whispered proclamation as he leapt up from the bed, tossing the blankets at Steve’s feet. 

Steve gasped, “No, wait!” Bucky’s arm had slipped from his grasp so quickly his sleep-addled mind barely had time to react. He reached for him, but it was too late; he was already gone.

“Bucky!” Steve immediately jumped up after him and barely caught a glimpse of him as he flung open the front door. He was only wearing his worn grey sweatpants, and Steve could clearly see the faint, pink scar tissue in the shape of stitches, crawling up the side of his torso. The gleaming metal of his left hand blended in almost seamlessly with the barrel of the shotgun.

“ _Bucky! Wait—”_ Steve watched helplessly as the door swung shut behind him, pushed up hard against the frame by the fierce winds. At this point, his body was moving without having to think. He frantically pulled on his own sweats and a t-shirt that had been left on the floor—now only a reminder of what had once been a peaceful, lazy evening, huddled up together, away from the violence of the wilderness. 

He tripped over his own feet, stumbling into the living room with barely half a sock on. As he struggled to pull on his boots, his heart almost stopped when he heard an enormous _BANG_ , followed by the disturbingly familiar sound of jet propulsion engines landing. _It can’t be…_ Steve felt like his heart was about to jump out of his throat when he flung the door open.

The world outside the cabin was _stark_ ; huge white snow drifts, blown around frantically by the wind, met a pitch black sky at the horizon line, only further deepened by the thicket of trees that surrounded the clearing. The light from the windows and the open door flooded the icy ground at Bucky’s feet, or more accurately, his calves, which were being swallowed up by the thick snow cover. Just barely out of the reach of that light stood Tony Stark—mask off, glowing blue repulsor canons at the ready.

“Do you know what you did, Barnes?! _Do you know what you fucking did?!_ ” Tony’s words tore straight through the powerful winds and blinding snow, echoing across the clearing in a wild torrent of raw, unbound _rage._ Steve could immediately detect the drunkenness in his voice, and took a step forward—his body just barely out the door—with a peaceful hand raised out in front of him. 

Bucky stayed firm, knees bent, with the shotgun up and ready. Steve caught the reflection of his metal finger resting lightly over the trigger, the muzzle aimed just slightly to the right of Tony’s head.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Stark. I don’t do that anymore!” Bucky’s voice cracked as he spoke, and he readjusted his stance, never taking his eyes off of Tony for a second. 

Tony let out a dark chuckle, and Steve thought he saw him roll his eyes, but the white-out conditions made it difficult to make out the exact expression on his face. 

“Oh so you _do_ know who I am.” Tony spat back, lowering one of his arms to his side. The sharp blue light from his moving palm looked so out of place—so _artificial_ —gleaming prominently against the harsh winter landscape. The deep, distorted shadows of his already-obscured face looked almost alien from where Steve stood.

“ _T_ _ony!_ Tony listen!” Steve took another step forward into the snow, placing himself just to Bucky’s right. Their eyes finally met from across the field, and all the other man could do was sneer. 

“You’re my _friend,_ Tony,” Steve pleaded, firmly grasping Bucky’s bare shoulder. “—And you’re not gonna hurt him.” His hand slipped when it made contact with Bucky’s icy skin, and he nearly toppled over—the harsh winds pushing against both of their bodies. Bucky hunkered down even further, propping himself up on one knee and carefully readjusting his sights. He was their anchor in the shifting snow. 

“Oh, _fuck_ you, _Rogers_ ,” Tony scoffed. His words singed Steve’s ears like hot venom. “Pretending to be America’s moral backbone when all you are is a _liar_ and a _coward_ —you _snake_!” 

The flash of blue was sudden and bright, like a camera going off in Steve’s face. He barely had time to react, tightening his grip on Bucky’s shoulder, but luckily Tony’s aim had been poor. Even with the beaming light of his suit to guide him, he was still outmatched by the impenetrable haze of flying snow and ice. The man wobbled a little at the force of his own cannons pushing him backwards. 

Bucky’s reflexes were a little sharper. He quickly turned around and shoved Steve behind him, trying his best to cover him with the bend of his right elbow as he took back up the shotgun. 

“I’m warning you, Stark— _back off._ ” Suddenly, Bucky adjusted his sights and fired, aiming somewhere off towards the tree line. The sound of the shot echoed just like their voices had, completely filling the space between the three of them. 

Steve reflexively pushed back against Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get between him and Tony again, but Bucky wouldn’t budge. 

“Get back inside,” He scolded under his breath.

The sound of the storm raging around them seemed to dissipate and all Steve could hear was his own blood rushing between his ears. 

“I’m not leaving you out here!” He cried out. 

Bucky nudged him back again with his shoulder. 

“I thought you said you don’t do that anymore, _Sarge—_ ” Tony asked, though it was hardly a question. His voice cracked at them like a whip, and Bucky responded in kind:

“I don’t.” He answered, steadfast. “ _I’m protecting Steve._ ” 

He cocked the shotgun, then took aim—dead on with Tony’s head. 

“Well good luck with that, _Soldier_ ,” Tony bit back. He confidently raised his left arm, palm up, and pointed it just to the right of Bucky’s shoulder. 

_Everything happened so fast_. Bucky sucked in a tight gasp, preparing to take the shot. He just barely pulled the trigger, misfiring off into the trees. A familiar flash of blue light erupted from the darkness, right in Steve’s eyes. He braced for impact, before a looming shadow crossed in front of him, blocking out the blast completely. 

“Tony, stop! _Please!_ ” Steve screamed, his throat going raw as tears started slipping unbidden down his face. Bucky was lying in the snow in front of him, completely silent save for his breathing, which had become hoarse and deep. A bright red splatter stained the bleach-white snow beneath him—the stitches on his side were torn open. 

Steve’s whole body was shaking. He reached down and around, wrapping Bucky up in his arms, _desperately_ pressing whatever warmth he had left in his damp sweatshirt into Bucky’s bare flesh. 

“Tony, stop! You’ll _kill him!”_

Bucky’s bright blue eyes were closed, and his crown of greasy brown hair gently fell over his face. Trapped in the onslaught of falling snow and his own ceaseless tears, Steve felt like he was drowning.

Tony just huffed indignantly, readjusting his stance. He curled his left hand into a fist, and raised the right one in front of his face.

“I don’t care,” He stated, point-blank. “ _He killed my mom_.”

The sound of his repulsors grew louder, and the blue light grew brighter. Steve thought about searching Bucky’s pockets for bullets, or running into the cabin and grabbing a knife, or charging at Tony through the snowbank, but it was no use. They were trapped. 

All he could do was lay his body down on top of Bucky’s and brace for impact.

Bucky’s chest suddenly jolted up, but Steve kept him firmly pressed to the ground.

“Please, Stevie, go in the house, I’ll be fine…”

His voice was trembling and hoarse, but he _meant_ what he said, and that’s what scared Steve the most.

“No. Not without you,” He said, knee-jerk. 

Their eyes met, and Bucky understood.

Steve closed his eyes and listened—listened to the sound of the repulsor charging, and the wind swirling around them. He listened to their bodies, their heartbeats and their breaths, falling in and out of sync with each other. Flickering behind his eyelids, he caught glimpses of Camp Lehigh, of Dr. Erskine’s gentle smile, and his kind eyes.

The unnatural whir of the cannon finally began to crest, the brightness reaching its peak, when suddenly, a familiar voice broke through the darkness, like a lightning strike.

“ _Tony!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀👀👀
> 
> Sorry about another short one but they're just so exciting! Also, I hope this doesn't come off as me not knowing how cold Canada gets. I know it gets colder than this, but 1) its spring time and 2) I wanted them to be able to survive this feasibly. Maybe I'm just a weenie about the cold I don't know. Anyways, see you all tonight!
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The resolution

_As far as she was concerned, nothing had happened except that_

_she had found her friend_

“Eyes up, stay sharp.”

Sam’s voice was trembling. His face was battered by the ice as they trudged deeper into the wilderness, the light from the Quinjet soon disappearing behind them in the vast white void. Nat’s pitch-black suit nearly disappeared too, in the opaque torrent of snow. The only sign that he wasn’t alone was the timid crunch of her footsteps behind him, and the glow of her taclight on the erratic trail ahead of them.

They followed a wayward series of large, blocky footprints, imprinted in the top layer of powder. The prints were fresh, barely covered by the new precipitation, but they started and stopped at random. _Tony clearly didn’t stick the landing_ , Sam thought. 

The further they walked, the thinner the steps became. They came upon a steep ridge, and the tree line began to thin out around them. 

“There.” Nat pointed up at the deep blue sky, barely grazed by the tops of the tall pines. Reaching towards the moon was a thin cloud of grey smoke, swept up by the frigid winds. 

Suddenly, a large _crack_ erupted through the air, breaking the cacophonous barrier of the howling winds. They jumped at the sound—they both knew it wasn’t a tree falling. Sam nodded to her silently, and they picked up their pace. When they reached the peak, they found a small valley, sloping down until it reached a tiny log cabin, barely illuminating the forest like a ship in the night. Below the steps of the cabin were three men, bathed in warm light. Their bodies moved through the snow like ghosts.

They were talking. Tony’s mask was off, his shock of brown hair a reminder of the broken man piloting that cold metal suit. A few meters in front of him, Bucky had planted himself firmly in front of Steve. It was hard to tell with the flurry clouding his vision, but he looked like he was readjusting his aim with...with a double-barreled shotgun. Sam’s hand subconsciously migrated to his belt—to the handgun he’d stored there. But when his fingers touched the edge of the holster, they froze. Steve had caught his attention, shoved back towards the house by Bucky. He kept scrambling back up on his feet, trying to get in front of the other man, despite being seemingly unarmed. _Figures,_ Sam thought. He could almost laugh. Something about the two of them there, hunkered down in the ice together—Steve looked like he was still in his pajamas and Bucky wasn’t even wearing a shirt. They were caught off guard and were on the defensive, but they had each other. _And that’s all they need._ He knew that feeling. For a moment, it seemed peaceful, out there in the snow. He almost could’ve forgotten that it was a battlefield, and that that peace wouldn’t last long. 

Sam watched, _horrified,_ as Tony straightened his shoulders, and with his hand raised, began charging his repulsor beam. His sleek metallic back reflected the blue light from his palms. The two other bodies seemed to collapse on top of one another, bracing for the coming impact. Tony shifted his arm just slightly to the left, and Sam felt his heart drop to his stomach. They had to move.

“Nat, _now_!” 

Sam took off down the hill without even checking to see if she was following behind, the heavy snow quickly swallowing her up until she was invisible. The blue light grew stronger, until it burst out of Tony’s hand in a blinding flash. Sam squinted in the face of the sudden, oppressive brightness. When he opened his eyes, Bucky was on the ground. The shotgun had been tossed aside and was slowly sinking into the snow. A shock of red stained the ground below his body. Steve had collapsed on top of him, shaking.

“Stop!—” Steve cried out, his desperate voice carried by the wind. Sam picked up his pace. His heart was pounding so hard that it blocked out everything—the wind, Tony’s voice, his own feet crunching beneath him. His breath was rushing out of him so fast he thought he might collapse, but that’s when Tony raised his right arm again. Sam frantically deployed his wings, managing to catch a bit of air coming right over the crest that carried him the rest of the way down. He landed just behind where Tony stood. 

“Tony, _stop_! You’ll kill him! You’ll _kill Steve_!” 

When Tony turned, and Sam met his eyes, he swore could feel a cold metal hand clench into a fist around his heart. 

“This isn’t about you, Sam!” Tony spit into the snow. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face seemed...cracked somehow. He was crumbling to pieces, from the inside out. “That man is a _killer_! A murderer! And you—” 

“And _you’re_ about to be one, too, if you don’t end this right now.” Sam took a shaky step forward, fighting not to break eye contact. “Tony, You’re _better_ than this. If your friendship with Steve really means that much to you, then _don’t_ do this to him. Please.” 

He glanced to the left and found Steve— _Captain America—_ barely sat up in the snow, his cheeks burning bright red and soaking wet. He held Bucky’s limp form loosely in his arms. _The Winter Soldier_ —a trained assassin, a killing machine, a ghost story—now reduced back to flesh and bones, to a broken man, ripped out of time. His once-prominent shotgun had nearly disappeared into the snow; only the dull glint of the muzzle poking out remained. 

Steve didn’t say a word to Sam, but his face was _pleading_. _The two of them look so small,_ He thought: backed up against the endless dark sky, the outline of the mountain looming over them. 

When he looked back to Tony, he found a furrowed brow, and a glossy sheen forming over his eyes.

Tony sighed, then shook his head. “I’m sorry—” 

Everything around Sam seemed to slow as Tony turned on his heel, his repulsors at full charge and about to erupt. The blue light was blinding, even from behind him. Thick snowflakes stuck to Sam’s lashes, whiting out the whole world as his legs carried him to Tony’s side, as fast as they could. By the time their hands met, the only thing Sam could sense was the _warmth_ of the beam, pressed so _hard_ against his frozen palm. 

“ _Don’t_ —don’t take this from him.” Sam barely had the strength to whisper, his skin already scorched from just a light graze of the beam at full blast. Now he was the one with the pleading eyes. 

Even through the thick carbon fiber of his chest plate, Sam could see each individual breath that Tony took. His eyes weren’t pleading, they were _searching_. He looked to Sam, then to Steve and Bucky, huddled together in the snow like kids. In that moment, standing so close, Tony himself looked less like a man, and more like a scared little boy— _one who used to stay up at night, waiting to hear his father pull into the driveway._

“I’m _sorry_ —Steve, I’m sorry…” The words came out like a hot breath onto Sam’s cheek, before he felt the full weight of Tony Stark collapsing in his arms. 

Steve was standing now, slowly helping Bucky onto his feet. Sam watched the shotgun finally sink fully into the drift beside them. 

“Sam—” Steve’s voice lifted in joy and relief. Sam turned back to the two of them at the sound of his name, just in time to watch Bucky stumble forward and land face down in the snow. 

“Sam! Get them inside, quickly!” Nat shouted as she ran up behind him. Sam was still in so much shock, he hadn’t even noticed that she’d left. “I’ve got the med pack from the jet.”

They frantically switched hands: Nat tossing the med pack over to Steve, Sam hoisting Tony up by the arms while Nat grabbed his legs. As the two of them steadily carried Tony towards the door, Sam glanced up at the pair in front of them. Steve was holding Bucky so _gently_ , carefully tucking his arms beneath the Soldier’s legs and back. The handle of the med pack hung safely from the bent knuckles of his fingers. Sam couldn’t help but smile. 

_____________

_I guess he can stay with us until he rusts_

**Time: Approximately 0831 Hours**

**Location: The Cabin**

**Temperature: 34 degrees Fahrenheit**

**1 Day Since Steve Rogers Was Found**

When Bucky’s eyes opened, the sun was rising over the tree line, between the scattered clouds. The snow had stopped falling and the world outside was finally still. 

_“Gloria regained her breath, submitted to a series of passionate hugs on the part of both her parents and turned eagerly toward Robbie.”_ Steve smiled down at him contentedly as he read, a warm hand pressed to his left shoulder. _“As far as she was concerned, nothing had happened except that she had found her friend.”_ He sat gingerly on the edge of the cot, just barely brushing against Bucky’s thigh, with _I, Robot_ ’s spine loosely pinched between his fingers. The sunlight coming in through the window cast a glow around his face, the stray blond hairs sticking up from his head softly shining like a halo. 

Bucky smiled back at him, and Steve melted. 

“Will—will you...” Bucky’s voice was weak and timid. He gently cupped his left hand around Steve’s knee. “Lay by me?” 

“ _No,_ Buck,” Steve laughed, playfully slapping his hand away with the book. “The less you move and the more rest you get, the sooner you’ll heal.” After he had collapsed, Steve and Sam had fixed him up as best they could. He had white gauze running all up his side where his old stitches had been, protecting the new ones Nat had given him. 

Steve slid his hand down Bucky’s arm until their fingers met, entwining with one another. 

“So...after I heal... _then_ we can sleep together again?”

Steve rolled his eyes and brushed their thumbs together. A palpable weight had finally been lifted from their shoulders, the world beyond the pines no longer pressing up against them, threatening to destroy what they’d built together. 

Steve glanced down at Bucky again, chuckling at the sweet, boyish pout on his face. _What an ass,_ he thought, biting his lip. _I guess some things never really change, huh._

“You want breakfast?” He asked, enjoying the way the other man’s face lit up at the question.

“Yes, please,” Bucky responded with an enthusiastic nod. Steve’s heart was so full, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He stood carefully, leaving the book in his place on the bed, before leaning down to give Buck a tender kiss on the forehead. Their faces were so close, his right hand naturally molding to fit the slight curve of Bucky’s cheek. He could feel the heat radiating from the other man’s skin, and it felt like home.

“You did good, Buck,” He whispered, gently pressing their noses together. 

Bucky smirked, his eyes fluttering closed. “I know, Rogers. I know,” he murmured into Steve’s lips. Steve broke out into a grin so big that it hurt, and Bucky leaned up to meet him halfway, kissing him silly. 

___________

“How’s Sarge?” Sam asked with a snicker. 

For the first time since he’d woken up there, over a month ago, Steve walked into a living room full of friends. Tony was still asleep in Bucky’s chair, tucked neatly into a pile of blankets. Nat sat comfortably at the kitchen table. She was facing the bedroom door, blowing on her coffee before taking a sip. Their eyes met, and Steve couldn’t help but notice how strikingly beautiful her red hair looked, delicately lit by the morning sunshine. Sam stood at the sink, his back turned to Steve as he rinsed off a dish. As much as he enjoyed Bucky’s company, he had to admit, he’d missed this feeling. 

“He said he’s ready to eat.” Steve groaned as he made his way towards the kitchen.

“Oh is that _so_?” 

Steve smiled. He didn’t need to see Sam’s face to hear the raised brow in his voice. 

“That’s right,” He answered, coming up behind Sam and plucking the plate from his hands. He playfully bumped his hip, shoving him aside. “And _you_ should be enjoying some coffee with Nat, not washing dishes.”

Sam smirked at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, _is that so_.”

Steve couldn’t help but scoff. “Of course not, _Wilson._ You’re a guest, and your hand—” He glanced down at the white gauze wrapped around Sam’s palm before Sam cut him off.

“Oh so we’re _guests_ now, huh?” He asked, a knowing lilt to his voice. Steve turned to face the faucet while Sam wandered off, his hands now folded behind his back. Steve could hear his slow footsteps as he crossed the room, stopping to look at the pictures scattered across the wall. “Does that mean...this is home now?”

Steve paused and leaned on the edge of the sink, the dishrag still in his hand. He looked up at the mountains and the rolling hills. Even with the thick snowfall from the night before, the ground cover was already starting to melt, leaving wayward patches of mud and grass and dainty purple flowers, poking up out of the ground to face the sun. He turned. Nat was still silently sipping her coffee, and Tony was lightly snoring. He looked almost _cute,_ bundled up like that in Bucky’s armchair, his suit safe and sound, already back at the Quinjet. Sam was poking around the bookshelf, carefully studying one of Steve’s drawings—it was one of him and Bucky, curled up in bed together. Steve didn’t have a solid reference to go off of, so he’d taken a couple extra glances of them in the mirror one night, and then drawn it from memory. 

Almost as though he could hear Steve’s thoughts, Sam looked to him, awaiting his answer.

Steve smiled down at the old rag hanging loosely from his hands. “Y’know what, Sam? Maybe it is.”

Sam nodded once, his mouth gently curving up at the corners, before turning on his heel back towards the shelves. Steve turned as well, reaching for the knob to turn on the faucet when he had an idea. 

“Hey, Sam?” He asked. He reached for the plate that was set on top of the stove, still warm and stacked with buttery pancakes. “Would you mind taking this in to Bucky?” He held the dish out in front of him, vaguely gesturing towards the bedroom. 

Sam grinned and walked over to take the food. “Sure thing, man. Sure thing.” Once they were both sure he could grip it with just his good hand, he gave Steve a quick pat on the shoulder, leaning in close. “And while I’m in there,” He whispered. “I’ll give em’ the old shovel talk, y’know, _soldier to soldier_ , if you know what I mean—ow!” 

Sam flinched when Steve gently swatted at his shoulder with the dish towel. “Man, get outta here!” He laughed, and Sam retreated towards the bedroom with a smirk.

“Alright, alright. I’m just tryna be a good friend, Rogers!” Sam replied, still grinning.

God, Steve had missed this. 

He crossed his arms and shook his head, holding back more chuckles. There was a moment, right before Sam disappeared behind the doorway, when their eyes met. Sam’s face was so _open_ , and calm. Steve could see a glint of sadness in those eyes, flecks of gold hidden behind warm, deep browns. They both knew what was coming, but somehow, in all of his infinite kindness and love, Sam was _happy_ for him, and that was more than he ever could have asked for. 

_I can’t believe I got this lucky,_ he thought, watching his best friend quietly shut the door behind him. _Twice in one lifetime? What are the odds…_

Soon, he went back to drying dishes, enjoying the quiet domesticity of the morning. Then Nat had to go and finish her coffee.

“So…” She spoke up abruptly. He heard her bluntly place the mug down on the table, still sitting with her back turned away from the kitchen. “Who’s gonna be the one to tell Tony that you two are fucking—”

 _“NAT!”_ Steve spluttered, barely quick enough to cut her off. The cup he’d been drying practically leapt from his hand, landing back in the sink and loudly clattering against everything else in it. His face was so hot he felt like he could combust. 

Nat just scoffed, the smirk on her face clear as day. “What? I was just asking—” 

“Wait, _what?_ ”

The room erupted with Natasha’s bright laughter, as Steve flinched at the sound of Tony’s voice from across the room. Suddenly, all he could think about was walking out into the wilderness and never coming back.

_On second thought, maybe I don’t miss this so much after all…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow, this story ends: Chapter 12, and then the epilogue. Thank you all so much for following this story and leaving so many kind messages and kudos! It means a lot to me that we all got to go on this little fictional journey together 💕
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgiveness, at the end of the line.

They walked back to the Quinjet in mostly comfortable silence. At first, Sam and Steve wandered off on their own, taking the time alone to catch up. As peaceful and healing as the last month with Bucky had been, Steve had to admit, he’d missed his best friend. 

Nat and Tony stayed a few paces behind them. Occasionally, Steve heard their hushed voices, but he couldn’t make out any words in particular. Whenever he glanced back at them, all he found was Nat slowly leading Tony through the snow, walking arm in arm.

Seeing where Steve’s attention had gone, Sam looked back at them too. He chuckled under his breath. “Should we walk like that too?” He asked facetiously, “Or will your android boyfriend get jealous—” 

Steve laughed and gave Sam a gentle _bonk_ on the back of the head. “Shut up, Wilson.” He chided him with a smile. He swiftly looped their arms together and patted the top of Sam’s hand. Then his voice grew quiet. “I’m gonna miss you, y’know,” he mumbled. His head dropped down to his boots, crunching in the tightly packed snow. 

Sam clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I _already_ missed you, man. You’re late to the party.” 

“I know, I know,” Steve sighed. He gently tugged Sam closer, committing the artificial rubbing sound of his polyester tac suit to memory. 

They continued their walk in silence. Steve took his time absorbing the details of the forest—the fresh smell of the gently sloping pines, casting delicate shadows of their needles along the edge of the tree line. The now-faint whistling of the wind was occasionally interrupted by quiet, twinkling birdsong. The sun was nearing the center of the sky, and the woods were bright and peaceful. It seemed to him that the storm had washed away their sins from the night before, and had left behind only what was necessary. 

“I think...I could get used to this,” he said, the words slipping from him like a shallow breath. Sam didn’t respond, but gave Steve’s hand a tight squeeze and tugged their linked arms a little closer together. 

Eventually, they made it to the jet, and the world suddenly came into sharper focus. Nat and Tony had caught up to them, and she carefully wrapped a hand around Sam’s shoulder, nudging at him to follow her inside. 

“C’mon, Wilson, let's go prep for takeoff.”

Sam looked to her, then back to Steve. His brow was taught, and his lower lip was trembling, but still, he said nothing.

Steve offered him a small smile, and clapped a reassuring hand on his other shoulder. “Go on, Sam. I’ll be up in a minute to say goodbye.”

Another moment of silence passed, then Sam simply nodded, disappearing into the loading bay of the jet with Natasha. _That just left—_

“Steve.”

Tony’s voice was like nothing Steve had ever heard before. He turned around slowly to face him. Tony stood a few meters behind him. He was wearing one of Bucky’s old tattered jackets. The arms draped down over his hands and the boxy shoulders dwarfed his torso. It was strange, seeing such a powerful man look so _small_ —the same man who’d carried a nuke through a wormhole above New York was standing before him now, practically swimming in an extra large winter coat. His voice was timid, and his eyes were pointed at his feet, buried somewhere in the snow. 

“Yeah, Tony?” It wasn’t really a question. Steve knew exactly what he wanted to say to him. All he could do in that moment was wait for Tony to say it back. 

“I’m…” Tony took a step forward—no, he shifted his weight, from his right foot, then back to his left. Steve didn’t move a muscle. 

Tony took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I’m sorry, Rogers—no, _Steve_. I’m sorry.” 

Steve felt his throat suddenly grow tight. He tried his best to focus his foggy eyes on Tony’s voice, following the cloud of vapor that appeared when he opened his lips to speak. “I didn’t know how much he meant to you, and…that doesn’t make me a very good friend, now does it?” He laughed, dark and remorseful. 

“Tony—” Now Steve was the one stepping forward, closing the gap. When Tony finally looked up at him, and their wet eyes met each other, he was sure that his heart was seconds from jumping up into his throat. 

Steve sighed, suddenly very aware of his own hands. “I’m sorry, too. I should've…” His fingers migrated to the hem of his own coat, one that Bucky had insisted on wrapping him up in before he left. _It still smells like him,_ he thought. “I should’ve _told_ you what he did…what they _made_ him do. It wasn’t fair for me to keep that from you. No matter how much I—” 

_Say it, Rogers_ , Steve’s own conscience chided him. _You love him, just say it._ Somehow, Tony beat him to the punch.

“You could’ve told me, y’know. That you loved him—that you _still_ love him.” Tony lifted his chin a little, revealing just the slightest grin on his face. “That definitely would’ve eased the cold shock of reading all those Hydra files, at least a _little_ bit.”

Steve could hardly believe it, but he laughed. 

“Yeah, I guess it would’ve. If only I’d known it sooner myself.” He sighed again and shook his head, resting his hands on his hips. 

Tony responded with a click of his tongue, crossing his arms over his chest. “I dunno, Rogers. Seems like at least _one_ other Avenger got the message before me.” He smirked and tilted his head back towards the jet. 

Steve turned, following Tony’s gesture, only to find Sam and Nat watching them expectantly from the loading bay. He smiled and rolled his eyes. “ _Well_ , I don’t know if Nat really counts—”

“Y’know, _Nat’s_ the one who actually got the message through my thick skull in the end.” Tony scoffed at himself, before his voice got quiet. “I should apologize to Wilson,” He sighed, seeming to deflate a little. Steve turned back to him and tentatively rested a hand on his shoulder.

He gave the other man a reassuring squeeze, the best he could. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you, Tony,” Steve said, sending him a burst of warmth through his palm. “Sam’s nice like that.”

He let Tony go, tucking his fingers back in his front pockets. Tony chuckled under his breath and kicked a bit of snow up with his boot. 

“Yeah,” He nodded. “He sure is.” 

For a fleeting moment, a comfortable silence settled between them. Then, Tony clapped his hands together and took a few wobbly steps towards the Quinjet. The next time he spoke, his back was turned. 

“You…comin’ with us?”

Steve bit his lip. He knew why Tony had asked, even if they both knew the answer already.

He shook his head, squaring his shoulders back. “No, Tony. Not today.” 

There was another beat of silence. The birds seemed to pick up their chirping, and a few of them took off into the sky, shaking a light dusting of snow from the nearby branches. A few of the white flecks landed in Tony’s hair. He slowly spun on his heel and found Steve’s eyes— _he was smiling again_.

“Well, Cap…if you two ever need anything up here in the sticks, y’know, maybe immunity from prosecution, or high-speed internet or something, don’t hesitate to give us—give _me_ a call. Alright?”

Steve smiled right back. “Sure thing, Tony.” 

Tony gave him a small salute before finally turning and making his way up the ramp onto the Quinjet. Steve followed behind him at a leisurely pace, enjoying the familiar echo of his voice, loudly asking F.R.I.D.A.Y. all of his typical pre-flight questions. Nat and Sam were still waiting for him on the ramp. Nat had her hands folded out in front of her. Her brow was raised slightly, but her grin suggested nothing but warmth and kindness. 

“You about to head back?” She asked with a smirk. She took a few steps down the ramp and Steve took one up. “I bet Barnes is worried sick about you already.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Steve grinned back at her, leaning in for his hug. Needless to say, she did not disappoint.

“ _God_ , I’m gonna miss you, Steve,” she spoke into the crook of his neck. Her breath was warm on his skin, and so were her strong arms, wrapped tightly around him. She’d always made him feel so _safe_. He didn’t know how he could possibly thank her for that feeling, but something in the way she squeezed his shoulders just right told him that he didn’t need to. 

Eventually, she pulled back, holding him gently by the elbows like they were slow dancing. 

“Y’know you’re welcome to come visit, Romanoff. As long as nobody gets blown to pieces next time.” Now he was the one smirking.

Nat bit back a laugh, and Steve took a moment to memorize the exact way that her eyes twinkled when she smiled with her teeth. 

“Sounds like a deal.” She nodded, before leaning in again. Steve tilted his head and received a familiar kiss on the cheek. He made sure to take in her smell, and the feeling of her soft red hair brushing against his face, before finally letting her go, watching her disappear into the jet with that same knowing look on her face. 

At last, it was just him and Sam again, alone in the wilderness. 

He looked up at his friend. Sam had his hands behind his back. His legs were spread but his shoulders were slightly hunched, almost like he was hiding something…

“Cap?” Sam’s voice trembled a little as he spoke. Steve figured he still didn’t know exactly what words to say, but he couldn’t fault him for that—Steve didn’t have the words either. “I know you’re… _retiring,_ but—” That word in particular seemed to ring in both their ears, more real now that it had been said out loud. Sam swallowed before he continued. “I…I want you to have this back. I mean, it _is_ yours after all.”

He shifted a little, reaching around his legs and rolling something large and metal out from behind him. 

“ _Oh_.” 

Steve’s eyes widened at the sight of the shield. The crisp reds and blues were truly striking against the pure white snow. 

He was brought back to that old drawing posted up by their bedside. _Cap salutes you!_ Sam’s hand was balanced on the edge of the shield, keeping it upright as he held it out in front of him. Steve’s eyes carefully followed the white bandage wrapped around his palm, before flicking his gaze back up to Sam’s face, as open and affectionate as ever. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing a weight from somewhere deep inside his body. 

“Keep it,” he said, more sure of himself than he’d ever been. He reached out and nudged the shield back towards his friend. _Where it belonged_. 

Sam sucked in a tight breath, and Steve had to bite his lip to hold back a toothy smile. His mouth was hanging open like he was about to speak—to _object_ —but Steve didn’t let him. 

“You’ll do a lot of good with it, Sam. A lot more than if it was up here with me, collecting dust. Alright?” 

Sam closed his mouth and swallowed again. “Alright,” He said, barely a whisper. A small smile appeared on his face, which soon grew into an enormous grin that reached all the way up to his eyes. He carefully lowered the shield to the ground, and Steve knowingly opened up his arms for a hug.

Sam’s grip was even warmer and tighter than Nat’s had been. This time, Steve was the one tucking his face into the space below Sam’s chin.

“You promise to come visit?” He asked, just a murmur against Sam’s shoulder. Of course, he already knew the answer. He just needed to hear him say it out loud again.

He could _feel_ Sam smiling, his neck muscles tensing. “I mean, I dunno Rogers. Being _Captain America_ is kind of a busy job—”

Sam laughed at the _second_ smack to the back of the head he’d gotten that morning. Steve kept his hand there a moment longer, enjoying the other man’s warmth beneath his fingertips while he still could. When they finally stepped away from each other, the air instantly grew colder, biting fiercely at Steve’s cheek. He raised his hand in a brief salute of his own.

“So long, _Cap_.”

He watched the way Sam’s eyes brightened, and how he bit his lip, clearly holding back tears. Steve knew exactly how he felt. 

“Thanks, Steve.” 

Eventually, the Quinjet disappeared, past the endless trees and into the sky—a beautiful bright blue after the storm. The walk home seemed to take no time at all. _Home_ , Steve thought as he crested the hill and caught sight of the cabin again. _Our home, mine and Buck’s._ It still didn’t seem quite real to him. His full-body buzz grew stronger as he slowly made his way down into the meadow.

Bucky was waiting for him as he approached the front door, casually leaning against the frame with a huge, goofy smile on his face. Steve’s first instinct was to berate him for getting out of bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to—not when the first words out of his mouth were:

“Welcome home, Soldier.” 

He couldn't help but break out into a toothy grin as he ran up to meet him. 

“Bucky? _Wait_ —” Suddenly he was being scooped up into the air, his breath being swept right out of his lungs. He heard Bucky groan a little when his huge body landed in the other man’s arms, but it quickly turned into a deep laugh. 

“I’m carrying you across the threshold, Stevie!” Bucky told him. He smirked down at Steve lovingly, doing his best to mask the pain in his face. Steve furrowed his brow, but didn’t try to wriggle his way out of Bucky’s grip.

“Alright, Buck,” he rolled his eyes. “Get it over with so you can get back to bed where you belong!” Steve tried _so_ hard to look cross, but he couldn’t keep his own stupid smile off his face.

Bucky nodded, taking a _comically_ large step through the doorway. “Sure thing! Anything for you, _doll—_ ” 

Steve wasn’t expecting him to suddenly lean down and plant a huge, _wet_ kiss on his face. He squirmed and _giggled_ —Bucky’s lips smacking up against his over and over. In that moment, Steve’s body was so overflowing with joy he thought he'd burst. 

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at Steve’s absolutely _smitten_ expression. His cheeks had turned bright red from the cold nip of the air mixed with the sudden onslaught of affection. He’d never felt so lucky. The two of them were practically bursting at the seams with love for each other—and subsequently, neither of them noticed the puddle of melted snow in the doorway until it was too late. Suddenly, they found themselves sprawled out on the floor, in a tangled pile of aching, hundred year old limbs. 

“ _Bucky!_ ”

“Don’t worry, Stevie, I’m _fine_!”

And with a soft kick, the cabin door gently shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're here-the end of the line! I'll save my authors note for the end of the epilogue (coming later tonight), but thank you all SO MUCH for coming on this journey with me! This fic is over 9 months in the making, and I couldn't be more proud of how it's turned out. These ending chapters are my most shaky, but I've known how I've wanted the story to end for a while, it's just taken me a long time to find the right words. Hopefully, they resonate with you, as much as the idea for this fic resonated with me. Thank you so much for your support <3 knowing people are getting joy out of my fics really keeps me going! Much love to all of you! ~ nat 
> 
> p.s. If you're looking for extra cuteness, be on the look out for chapter 13, coming in just a few hours! 
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


	13. Epilogue

_Nothing you could say to tear me away from my guy..._

**Time: Afternoon**

**Location: The Cabin**

**Temperature: 65 degrees Fahrenheit**

**2 Months Since Steve Rogers Was Found**

___________

Steve let his eyes flutter closed, falling in and out of sleep as he enjoyed the feeling of soft cotton on his bare skin, and the sunlight grazing his cheek. They were lying on their backs, watching the clouds float by. Steve had whipped up some sandwiches, and Bucky had brought out the radio and a picnic blanket. Mary Wells’ soft voice was carried up by the wind through the tinny speakers, mixing with the birds and crickets chirping and the tall grass rustling in the breeze. To Steve, it was perfect, like something out of a fairytale. 

He was about to drift off again when he felt something cold nudge against his arm.

“Wanna dance with me, doll?”

He turned on his side; Bucky was staring back at him, grinning from ear to ear. He leaned forward until their noses pressed together. “C’mon, Stevie,” he whispered, “ _Dance with me._ ”

Steve groaned. He didn’t wanna move, not one inch. They could’ve stayed like that forever for all he cared; laying side by side in a meadow, their bodies aligned from head to toe. Bucky wiggled a little closer, tucking his face behind Steve’s ear. “C’mon, _babydoll_ , I know you wanna.”

Well now Buck was just teasing him.

Steve huffed out a quiet laugh, turning to look back up at the sky. The bright blue of early summer reminded him of Bucky’s eyes, reflecting the warm light of the fire. He decided not to answer him in words—a smile would suffice, big enough to show off his dimples to any planes flying overhead. 

“ _Y_ _es!_ Alright, time to get up—” Bucky pumped his fist in the air and rolled up onto his feet, offering a hand down to Steve. He took it without question, and soon they were both standing in the grass with their shoes off, their toes wiggling between the dandelions and the dirt. Bucky anchored his left hand at the small of Steve’s back, pushing them as close together as he could before they’d start stepping on each other’s feet. Steve leaned into the touch with ease. 

_Nothing you could do cuz’ I’m stuck like glue to my guy…_

“I recognize this song.”

“Is that so?” Bucky asked—with that same teasing lilt to his voice he’d had for ninety-odd years now.

“Yeah.” Steve smiled softly against his cheek. “Sam showed it to me, back when I was in the hospital.” Steve decided not to mention Sam’s teasing _insistence_ that the song was about the two of them. 

_“You hear Miss Wells singing her heart out! How could you_ not _relate? I know I sure can—”_

_“What’s that ‘posed to mean, Wilson?”_

_“I’d say that if I jump out of a building for somebody, then we better be stuck like glue, or else.”_

He had to bite back a laugh just thinking about it.

They stayed like that for a while, just swaying back and forth to the music. Steve was still in awe at how _gentle_ Bucky was with him, his metal fingers curling slightly against Steve’s back, then flattening out and rubbing tiny circles over his t-shirt. His flesh hand flexed and tightened too, just enough to let Steve know he was still there. 

_I'm stickin' to my guy like a stamp to a letter_

_Like birds of a feather, we stick together…_

Steve settled his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. His eyes traced the shape of the blooming hills, leading up to the trees and eventually the mountaintop. As they slowly turned, he caught sight of the cabin, and it instantly brought a smile to his face. Since the snow had melted, they’d gradually begun to fix it up together. Bucky built the flower boxes sitting below the windows, and Steve had filled them with bright yellow daffodils and gently drooping lilies. They’d put up curtains in the windows, and fixed a carved wooden sign to the front door that simply read: _Steve and Bucky’s._

A clothesline was strung up between the side of the house and one of the trees at the edge of the forest—Bucky had _insisted_ on being the one to put up the hooks, seeing as Steve had been doing all the washing for the both of them. Something as simple as waking up to their laundry like that, all _mixed together_ , made Steve’s heart sing. It reminded him of the old rusty fire escape, and Bucky playfully scolding him for getting paint on his only good shirts.

_I'm telling you from the start_

_I can't be torn apart from my guy..._

“ _Stevie…_ ” Bucky’s voice was low and hazy. Steve felt a set of lips turn against his cheek, trailing kisses from Steve’s temple down to his chin. “I love you so much, doll. Y’know that, right?” 

Steve’s face got so hot he thought he might boil over. He sank into the barrage of gentle kisses, smiling ‘till his lips drew taught. “Yes, Buck. _I know_.” His left hand shifted to the back of Bucky’s neck and he gave him another affectionate squeeze. “You know I love you too, _right_?”

He felt Bucky pause to think—Steve could sense it in the way his shoulders shifted to one side, and how he turned to hide his face in Steve’s hair. 

“ _Buck—”_

“Yeah yeah, Stevie, I _know_.” 

Steve rolled his eyes, pulling Bucky’s head back by the base of his neck. “Then _prove_ it,” he whispered, a fresh smirk on his face. He leaned in, resting his forehead against Bucky’s and pressing their noses back together. He listened to Bucky breathing him in, felt their heartbeats touching—their ribs colliding like teeth. Slowly, Bucky tilted his head to the side. When their lips met, the wind seemed to slow, and Steve _swore_ that the flowers at their feet were swaying in time with the music. Bucky’s tongue gently pressed up against Steve’s lips, and he opened himself to him completely. He tasted like peanut butter and jelly, and it made Steve wanna tackle them both into the grass and never get back up.

_There's not a man today_

_Who could take me away from my guy_

___________

The inside of the cabin was changing too. For one thing, there were more books on the shelves—as soon as he’d learned that Bucky liked to read, Tony had made _sure_ they were outfitted with a library full of material. They’d managed to scrounge up more furniture too. A tattered old sofa now sat in front of the fireplace alongside Bucky’s chair. Once again, Tony had offered to have something slightly _newer_ delivered but Steve had politely declined. He liked the shabby thing, with its cushions already worn in. Perfect for lazy afternoons, full of cuddling and not much else. 

There were more pictures now too; plenty of sketches and paintings from Steve, but also photographs of friends. Steve’s favorite was posted up on the fridge with a vintage _Brooklyn Giants_ magnet that Sam said he’d gotten from an uncle or a cousin—he hadn’t been particularly specific. It showed the four of them, alongside Nat and Wanda, all crowded around the dining table together for dinner. The room was lit by the soft light of the fire, and far off in the corner, just over Sam’s shoulder, you could see the full moon hanging in the window. 

As the sun set over the meadow, turning the vibrant green grass to mellow blues and awaking the fireflies for their nightly dance, Steve and Bucky would begin their bedtime ritual. It started with a shower. Bucky always went first. Sometimes, he’d drag Steve along with him, but other nights, he took the time for himself—and that was just fine. In fact, Steve thought it was pretty damn great. Just like their _I love you_ ’s, they were working on it.

While Bucky took his turn in the bathroom, Steve would tidy up the living area, tossing dirty socks in the laundry bin and sweeping up stray crumbs. As a joke housewarming gift, Nat had bought him his own apron, covered in bright yellow sunflowers and fat cartoon bumble bees. He’d laughed when he unwrapped it, but it soon had its own hook on the wall next to the fridge. He found himself reaching for it often, especially during their nightly ritual, like his own silly little security blanket.

After they’d both cleaned themselves up, they’d silently head to the bedroom, exchanging shy but loving glances as they went. Bucky usually brought a book along with him, tucked under his metal arm. Sometimes, if Steve was lucky, he’d fall asleep to the sound of Bucky’s voice reading aloud. But usually it ended up on the bedside table, unopened. Tonight was no different. Steve sat on the edge of the bed, carefully removing his own socks and shirt, watching himself move in the mirror. It was different now too—the edges of the glass painted with dainty purple crocuses. They brought out the pink in Steve’s cheeks, and the blue in his eyes, and made it a little easier to glance at his reflection. 

" _Stevie?_ "

Bucky always climbed into bed first, no matter which sides they ended up sleeping on. He’d turn on his side, silently opening his arms up to him. Then Steve would follow, tucking himself in close to Bucky’s chest, falling asleep to the steady beat of his heart.

" _Yeah, Buck?_ "

They’d wake up like that too, wrapped up tight in each other’s warmth.

" _I love you._ "

And every morning, Steve pinched himself. 

" _I love you too, pal._ " 

He swore he must be dreaming, and hoped that he’d never wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bang has been an absolute rollercoaster and there's so many people I wanna thank for making this story possible. Thank you to the incredible NASBB mods, who were there for me every step of the way and helped me keep my head on straight for the past 9 months. Thank you to alby, for being the best pinch-hitter artist a writer could ask for. Thank you to my amazing beta Steph for her encouragement and grammatical know-how. Thank you to all the amazing friends I made on the NASBB discord server. Thank you to theemdash, for suggesting "Robbie" as a companion text for this story. Thank you to my biggest cheerleaders in the GSD channel, like nos, ap, leslie, saddaughter, tweaze, alpaca, rainboz, and SO many others! I wish I could hug all of you and send you cookies! Thank you to everyone who has stumbled across this story and left such kind comments and SO many kudos! You all are the reason these stories don't stay trapped in my head forever. Thank you for coming along with me for the ride. 'Till next time! ~ nat
> 
> p.s. "My Guy" by Mary Wells wasn't originally on my playlist for this fic, but consider it a highly necessary and extremely adorable last-minute addition. 
> 
> Check out the spotify playlist here! ~ https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7irX2L77FOCzBlYlRBFAHb
> 
> twitter: @budgetzendaya


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